Heartlines
by thegirlwiththeradishearrings
Summary: This is my take on the Lyanna/Rhaegar relationship. I am planning this story, obviously, on the theory L/R-J which I'm pretty confident is true.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my take on the Lyanna/Rhaegar relationship. Not sure how far I'm going to go with it , but plan on writing possibly two more entries. I don't plan on it being long. I will probably cover both tourneys Rhaegar and Lyanna are present for, and hopefully manage to write some Tower of Joy scenes, and their final moments of life. I am planning this story, obviously, on the theory of L+R=J which I am pretty confident is true. Hope you enjoy! :) Comments are much appreciated, and feedback is ALWAYS welcomed. I haven't written fix in so long, so advice is like mint chip ice cream- always welcomed.**

**_Disclaimer:_ Most characters are GRRM's, although I might have the occasional random OCs for plot purposes.**

* * *

Lyanna Stark

The flat of the sword came down upon Lyanna's head with malicious force. Ducking to the left, she was able to miss the heart of the blow, but did not escape unscathed. The tourney sword caught the back of her helm, and the roar of metal against her skull made Lyanna dizzy with pain. Spinning on the balls of her feet, she countered her attacker's high blow with her sword. She could never match his size or strength, but had speed on her side. He was too big to attack straight-on, so she would have to work from the sides. She danced feverishly around him, the heat of combat pumping through her veins; Lyanna could see people gathering around the yard and hoped no one would try and intervene. The large brute tried another high attack, the heavy sword arching downward in a rage fueled cut. She saw the move coming and slide her tiny body sideways, clouds of dirt bursting underneath her toes. He spun, his sword catching the sunlight, and lashed out for her.

Lyanna couldn't help but smile. This was what she was made for, what her blood called for. She was a Stark of Winterfell, a warrior of the North. People would try and say a woman couldn't fight, that it was a man's duty to hold a sword and a woman's to carry a child. They were wrong. Her place was here, fighting in the dirt, sword in hand, with the sunlight burning down upon her back.

Lyanna slide gracefully away from a low cut, and caught the young lord in the shoulder. He cursed. This made Lyanna's smile widen. She fed off his anger, drank in his rage. It only made her stronger. Grunting, she kicked out and felt her foot make contact with his knee. The lord stumbled forward. She tried to pull her leg back, but his gloved hands had it in their iron grip. He yanked her to him, and Lyanna went down hard. Gasping at the pain in her shoulder, she twisted sideways.

It was a bad position to be in. He was twice her size, and much, much stronger. She had to find an out. He pulled her body to him, and she struggled to break free. Dirt shifted with her every movement. She kicked her free foot outward, praying that it would find a target. The first blow rammed into his shoulder, the second found his helm. A meaty fist pounded into her belly with such force, Lyanna struggled to breathe. Gasping for air, she rolled to her side and didn't see him reaching for her.

His helm was dented and was twisted atop his head, but she could see his eyes through the visor. They were burning.

With a strangled cry, Lyanna's elbow found his face. The young lord's head snapped back with the force, but he didn't allow her to wiggle free. Grabbing ahold of her shoulders, he shoved her into the ground. She was short of breath and Lyanna could tasted blood in her mouth.

With one arm pinning her chest down, the young man leaned in close, his breath stinking of summer wine and his voice as harsh as the winds of winter. "I'm going to rip your fucking head off, you little shit."

A large, beefy hand clamped down against the helm's side and he pulled it free. Lyanna's dark hair spilled out and her face was flushed with rage. Sweat covered her neck and face, cascading down her cheeks in tiny beads. She watch the young lord's expression morph from fury to confusion. But she didn't have time to hesitate.

She spat blood at his face and slammed her hands against his chest. The lord jerked back, allowing her knee some space to move. She beat it into his stomach and watched as he lost his balance. Lyanna saw a way in.

Her fingers found his discarded sword, and she shoved her way atop him. "I," Lyanna heaved angrily, "Win."

The flat of the tourney sword was pressed against the young lord's neck, and his eyes were wide. The yard had quieted down significantly, and Lyanna wondered why.

"_Lyanna_!" The voice cut through the silence deeper than any sword could cut through flesh. Lyanna's heart dropped into her throat. _Seven hells_, she swore. Grinding her teeth, Lyanna leaped from the man's massive body and turned to face her brother.

Brandon Stark was not a small man. His height reached over six feet and his body was broad and muscled. His hair was a dark brown, nearly black just like hers, and he kept his beard cropped short. Many ladies called him handsome, and Lyanna had no trouble seeing why. He wore the traditional Stark colors: gray and black from head to toe. He was the eldest of Rickard Stark's four children, his twentieth name day come and gone, and heir to Winterfell by birthright. She tried not to be afraid of him, but his rage was cold and unnerving. She straightened her spine, and inclined her chin upward. She was a Stark, a wolf of the North by birth and she would not cower at her brother's displeasure. Brandon's lips were pressed in a fine line as he crossed the barren yard.

Looking over his shoulder, Lyanna could see her other brother, Eddard, following in Brandon's wake. His expression was unreadable.

Brandon's black boots descended on the ground with even, measured steps, and Lyanna stood as still as ice. When he finished crossing the yard, he stood two feet from her and didn't say anything. Lyanna's hands curled into fists, her right hand still grasping the tourney sword. A headache began to sweep into her temples, the quick pulse of her heart throbbed with every beat.

She met Brandon's cold grey gaze with one of anger and refused to break it.

"Drop the sword," he commanded. Biting back an argument, Lyanna held the hilt tightly for a few defying seconds before tossing it a few paces away, her anger palpable. It fell with a soft _clunk_ in the dirt. The afternoon's summer breeze whipped tendrils of damp hair into Lyanna's face. The dark hair danced about her eyes, caressed her cheeks, and stroked her small straight nose. She could feel more blood gushing from her cheek, and let it pool in her mouth. Eddard took his place beside his brother and stood watching her. "Now," Brandon started, trying to keep his voice steady. "Tell me what in seven hells are you doing, Lyanna."

"Practicing." She replied icily.

"Father said no swords. He said _no_, Lyanna. How dare you defy him."

She started at that.

"It's not fair, Brandon! You know it isn't. I have a _right_-"

"You have no right," he snarled in an undertone. "You have a duty to your house, a duty to do as your told, Lyanna. You don't get to decide. Father said no, and that's final." He locked a solid hand around her forearm, and leaned forward, his eyes flashing angrily. "I have half a mind to send you back to Winterfell-"

Lyanna interrupted, her voice furious. "You can't do that. I'm a guest here as much as you, I've come to watch the tourney."

"Exactly," he growled. "Watch, Lyanna. Not fight in it."

Brandon looked over her head to the unknown lord standing a few paces behind them and watching with uncertain eyes. He seemed completely unsure of himself.

"I must apologize for my sister's actions, my lord. She does not know her place," Brandon called out, his hand still curled around her arm. "Do you have a name?"

The young man rubbed dirt off his cheek and spat a wad of blood onto the dirt. "I'm of House Frey," he grunted. Lyanna's face became a mask, she would not apologize willingly to a Frey. If Brandon wanted her to be courteous, he would have to choke it out of her.

"And what might I do to repay you for my sister's trouble?" Brandon's hand tightened on her arm.

The Frey's eyes flickered to Lyanna and took a minute to search her. Rage burned afresh in her veins. How dare he look at her like cattle! She was not something to be bought or sold in a market. She was a Stark, a wolf, a child of winter, how dare her look at her with such disrespect!

"I might be in need of a wife. She's not bad on the eyes, I should think, not bad at all." His expression grew hungry, like a starving man being tempted with fresh meat. She could feel her brother's disgust, and could taste the tension in the air.

"I'm sorry to disappoint, my lord, but Lyanna is already promised to another."

The Frey's expression clouded over and he scowled. After a long paused he sneered, "I'd keep her on a shorter leash if I were you, my lord. A bitch like her isn't easy to control." A few hoots of laughter could be heard from the watching crowd, and Lyanna lunged forward, face flushing. Brandon, however, held her back, but she could feel his hackles rising.

"Guard your tongue, my lord," he called, his voice dangerous. With a cruel smirk and a shake of his head, the Frey man spat again. "Apologize, Lyanna."

"I won't-"

"Now, " he growled.

Straightening up, Lyanna stuck her chin high in the air. She ripped her arm from her brother's grasp and turned to the Frey man.

"Deepest apologies, my lord," she spoke slowly. "I hope I didn't hurt you too badly. Your nose looks regrettably off balance in comparison to your face, and your eyes seem a bit cross, but I'm positive a maester will be able to accommodate you." A handful of the crowd members roared with laughter and Lyanna curtseyed softly before turning and stalking away, her two brothers in tow.

* * *

**A/N: So, that went. . . well, I hope. Please let me know what you think, I have no problem with harsh criticism, I'll do whatever it takes to better myself. Lyanna, in GRRM's books, is described as headstrong, willful, and beautiful (a lot like Arya, who is constantly compared to Lyanna). If my calculations are correct, Lyanna is 13 when the Tourney of Harrenhal takes place, Rhaegar is 22, Robert and Ned are both 18, and Brandon is 20. I am writing Lyanna to be exactly what she is: a child. She will be very childish in some ways, mature in others. I hope everyone can bare with me on my take of her. I expect to be writing Howland Reed into this plot, as he is at the tourney. Again, comments are much appreciated! :) Thanks for reading. **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry it took so long! I was trying to get a solid plot going and I think I finally found one that works! I got the ages messed up, as two people were kind enough to point out. Lyanna is actually 16 not 13, but I'm sure everyone else's ages are the same. . .(?) Hope you like this chapter; we finally get some Howland Reed and a bit of Rhaegar, but more of the latter next chapter! **

**Comments feed my soul; anything you wish to say is welcomed, I love criticism, so if you see something you disagree with or any spelling, grammar, punctuation, etc. please let me know! Thanks :)**

**_Disclaimer:_ Everything is GRRM, I mean, _come on._**

Chapter 2

Sunlight descended on the fields of grass, alighting them in a yellow haze. The light silhouetted Lyanna and her elegant courser, framing their forms as they darted across the horizon. Both rider and beast were in sync, their bodies flowing together with a magnificent grace. The courser's hooves seemed to glide across the land. Lyanna Stark's cloak rode against the breeze, her dark hair spilling down her back, tendrils lashing against her face.

Breath rattled between Lyanna's lips as her lungs starved for air. An iron hand had clenched down on her chest, squeezing until pain bloomed inside her ribcage and her head felt faint. Her shoulders were tense and sweat had glazed her brow. The courser's mane danced freely in the wind, licking Lyanna's face, whispering softly in her ears. She felt like she was flying.

The wind crashed in her ears like waves and Lyanna gave the courser's reins a slight tug, curving her body against the beast's. It followed her command and pumped its legs harder into the summer grass. They raced over a furling hill, the wide river conjuring itself into view. The sunlight hit the water and blinding light reflected off the surface. Gasping for air, Lyanna ebbed the chestnut courser into a fluent trot, both their muscles shaking from exertion.

Leaning forward on the horse, Lyanna's hair clung to her face and fell about her shoulders. She could feel her heart's pounding in her temples, and the overwhelming need for air made her chest heave in yearning. The horse's breath was ragged and she could feel the vibration of its body against her thighs. She urged the chestnut creature into a steady walk, allowing the beast time to regain its strength. Lyanna's gaze drifted across the landscape, her grey northern eyes glowing with an enigmatic zeal. Her arching brows furrowed in apprehension. Three figures stood out against the bank of the river. Their movements were jerky and violent. Lyanna clenched her teeth together and twisted her lips in a snarl. Slamming her boots into the courser's flanks, she leaned forward, one hand grasping the tourney sword at her belt.

Hooves pounding into the earth, the courser's speed carried them in flight downhill. As she got closer, she saw three large boys, but with a fourth on the ground._ They're beating him_, Lyanna realized. Eyes darting to the victim, she noticed a small river boat not ten feet away. She remembered something her Septa had told her once. "The people of the the Neck aren't like most. They don't use horses, they prefer small boats to travel through the swamps instead. . ."

_He must be a crannogman,_ she thought. _One of my father's men._ Lyanna's voice boomed across the fields, disturbing the quiet.

"Hey!" She bellowed. "That's my father's man you're kicking!" Laying into her courser's sides, Lyanna unsheathed her tourney sword. Riding with ferocity, she pulled the large beast up next to the three boys, squires by the look of them, and dismounted fluidly, sword humming in her gloved hand.

Her lips tore back from her teeth and she felt a growl deep in her throat. The squires had stopped burrowing their boots into the young man's curled body and turned to face her. Their sigils announced the houses they served. Lyanna racked her memory for the names. _A pitchfork stood for House Haigh, a porcupine for House Blount_, Lyanna looked to the third boy and narrowed her eyes, rage seething from her pores. _Two towers. House Frey._

Lyanna didn't hesitate. She slammed her tourney sword into the Blount squire's stomach, his face morphing into a picture of shock. Kicking at the unprepared Haigh squire's legs, he collapsed forward and Lyanna rammed the butt of her tourney sword against the side of his head. He yelped pitifully and grabbed at his head. The Frey boy had taken his sword from his belt, but he looked uncertain. Lyanna swung her arms in a powerful slash. She watched as the layered blue tunic shredded down his torso. A thin line of blood welled on his chest and he stared at it in horror. Backing away, the squires turned and ran.

"_Cravens_!" She called after their receding figures.

Sweat beaded on her forehead and Lyanna felt like her muscles were on fire. Her cloak flapped in the wind and her hair was tangled down her back. Sliding her sword back into its sheath, Lyanna reached a hand down to help the bloodied crannogman. His lip was bleeding, she noticed, the sticky red blood was trailing down his chin in a mixture of dirt and salvia. His temple was marred with a deep gash and his eye was beginning to bruise a puffy grey.

Lyanna whistled to her waiting courser as she took the crannogman under the arm. His weight sagged against her and she bit into her lip, her legs shaking. Not without effort, Lyanna hauled the small man onto the back of the chestnut courser. "Thank you," he gurgled with a mouth full of blood.

"Lyanna of House Stark, it's a pleasure, my lord."

* * *

After tending to his cuts and bruises, most of which covered the entirety of his small frame, Lyanna finally found the young man's name.

She pressed a damp cloth lightly against his bleeding temple."Howland," he stammered through the pain. "Reed. Of Greywater Watch." Lyanna smiled.

"I'm never met anyone from the Neck before. Only stories," he grimaced. "I'd say we've had a very interesting first impression, my lord." All the crannogman could do was nod.

He was short of stature, his body lean and muscled, his olive skin glimmering in the firelight. Lyanna had peered into his earthen green eyes and seen an honest man. He had an earnest smile that spoke a silent language all of its own. Lyanna yearned to read it, wondered what lay behind it. What did the swamp dweller think of her? Of her family? Her people? She hoped to learn in time.

Benjen had helped dress his wounds and applied a soothing cream to his bruises. He hadn't spoken a word to the stranger, only glanced furtively from underneath his unruly dark hair. She could tell he was curious. Crannogmen rarely left the Neck. They liked to keep to themselves. Lyanna herself knew little about them and most things she heard were not nice things. Frogeaters, people called them. The insult perturbed Lyanna.

_Let them try_, she thought. _Anyone who dare mutter the name in my presence will get a frog shoved down their throat. Who'll be the true frogeater then?_

Brandon had been shocked when Lyanna had shown up, half dragging the crannogman into the tent, but her eldest brother had helped her all the same. He had shown none of his earlier annoyance when she asked him to take Howland to the bed. All he indicated was pride. He found her retelling of the tale heroic. She couldn't understand why, but Brandon's mind worked like an odd misshaped puzzle and only he was familiar with the pieces. She didn't try to riddle him out.

Eddard hadn't said anything to her or to Howland Reed. He had watched them tend to the young man in his usual silence, his eyes clouded in thought. Lyanna hadn't suspected anything else from her closest brother. He understood her, and that was all she could ask of him.

"Are you going to the feast with us, my lord?" Benjen asked in a curious voice, his bright blue eyes finally meeting the Reed's green ones. Howland's body was clothed, the binding cloth creating lumps on his thin frame.

"I think it best that I don't," he whispered from the bed.

"Why? Those squires won't bother you again, we would beat them bloody if they did." Lyanna smirked at her younger brother and leaned against the bed frame, arms crossed.

"I'm sure you would," he smiled. "But I've seen how people treat swamp men such as myself. I think it best if I not cause any trouble."

"You're a man of the North and your people have just as much right to be here than any one else," Lyanna bit in. "Men are troubled by things they don't understand, that does not make you, or the people of the Neck, at fault. It only makes the conscience of men weaker. You are going to the feast. I will bring my father here myself and have him force you as a bannerman to comply to my wishes."

Howland Reed lay quiet, by Lyanna could see a smile playing at his swollen lips.

"As you wish, my lady."

Lyanna turned, her muddied dress swooshing about her ankles. "Don't call me that," she reprimanded over her shoulder. "There is no joy in being a lady, I find, my lord."

* * *

Lyanna felt an odd sensation in her chest. It was as if a bird were fluttering about her ribcage, its wings pattering against her bones. Its small beak was pecking at her heartstrings, playing a rhythm on her heart. She swore never a sound so sweet had reached her ears. The melodious tones of the Prince Rhaegar's voice had made her breath catch in her throat, and there it stayed, trapped in her slender neck, pressing against her skin. The song was dangerously bittersweet, and a dark sorrow filled Lyanna's mind like thick syrup. She couldn't think clearly, her senses had evaporated like a damp summer sweat and Lyanna found her cold northern eyes filled with tears.

What could have possibly caused such a sorrow as the one Rhaegar sung of? What immense pain had he known in his life? The roots of sadness were buried deep, she noticed. The sadness was not plain upon his face, but she could tell it was reoccurring somewhere inside the silver prince. He kept it burrowed well, hidden somewhere no one, not even she could ever find. That made Lyanna sadder than anything else.

When Benjen notice her damp face, he giggled, teasing her. It maddened Lyanna, her cheeks reddening with a sweet pink blush. She seized the nearest wine cup, her fingers curling around the handle, and threw the deep red contents on him. Benjen sputtered, his hair soaked with sticky red wine, rivulets of the liquid cascading down his appalled face. Many seated guests around them broke out in laughter, and Lyanna could hear Robert Baratheon's boisterous laughter from the next table over.

_Robert._

Lyanna's smile faded from her face as soon as it had appeared. Robert Baratheon; the Stormlord, Lyanna's very own betrothed. She had blissfully forgotten her sworn engagement, but now the very thought of it hit her with such force a sense of hopelessness came over her. She may wield a sword better than many a men, but that did not exempt her duties as a lady, nor the duties to her house. There would come a time when she would have to put down her sword, don a lavish gown and say the sacred words beneath a weirwood tree or inside a sept. She would marry Robert Baratheon, take his name, birth him many sons, let him do with her as he will. The very thought made her stomach sick.

Robert was kind to her, and he was Ned's best friend, but she would never see him the way he saw her. He looked at her with dazed eyes as if he was in some deep sleep. That was Robert's fault: he was always in some dream or another. He would kiss pretty girls, fight in many tourneys, and drink until his eyelids could stay open no longer. He would go to sleep beside her in a wine induced stupor, murmur sweet things in her ear and forget them come morning. Robert was Robert and Lyanna was Lyanna, and they were two people that were never meant for one another. But their houses had to be joined and duty was nagging at Lyanna's conscience, her family standing over one shoulder, her honor looming over the other. Yes, she would wed Robert of House Baratheon, but she would never truly be happy.

Perhaps that was the sorrow Prince Rhaegar had sung of. Mayhaps he had never found his true happiness either.

**A/N: Let me know what you think! I'm trying to work with my Lyanna in my head, but would love to know what you think of her! Thanks for reading :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry it took me so long, guys! Thank you all so much for the reviews and supportive comments, you have no idea how happy it makes me and the ambition it gives me to keep writing! Let me know what you think! **

**Disclaimer: Everything is GRRM and everything hurts. Mah feels. **

Chapter 3

The steel sung as he slid his sword from the sheath at his hip.

"I had hoped for a second dance with you, my prince." Her lips tilted upward in amusement, but her eyes were cold. "Although, I never thought it would be one with steel between us."

The blade glowed in the evening light as the sun faded behind the hills. She had nowhere to run, her spine was pressed firmly against the tree's gnarled trunk, the river was at her side, and Rhaegar stood before her with a Valyrian steel sword at her neck. Griping the ordinate hilt tighter, the prince pressed the blade against her pale skin. The alluring smile that played at her lips suddenly contorted into a snarl.

He watched, entranced, as the steel ebbed into her soft skin. She did not flinch. The she-wolf of the North kept her vivid grey eyes trained upon him, lips pressed together in defiance.

Breeze tousled her dark hair, strands brushing against her fair face. Prince Rhaegar's eyes were narrowed in speculation. "Why?" He asked simply. She lifted her chin upward, and parted her lips.

"Duty," she breathed softly.

* * *

_Defend. Protect. _

Lyanna blinked the sunlight from her eyes and licked her cracked lips, tasting sweat on her tongue. She was somewhat aware of the cheering crowd, but all she could hear was the pounding of her heart and the rough echo of her breathing inside the helm. Peering through the opening in the ill-fitting helm, she was able to see her opponent at the end of the lists. He was a large knight clad in gleaming armor, bearing the sigil of House Frey on his shield.

Her black rounsey snorted and kicked at the dirt. He was an older horse, his coat dirty and frayed, but his legs were strong and he stayed steady for her. Lyanna hadn't questioned Howland when he showed up with the stallion that morning, she just grabbed hold of the reins.

_Defend. Honor. _

The knight's pale courser flicked its tale and whinnied._ It's a younger mare_, Lyanna observed, _just a filly_. Quick and fast, but harder to control. This knight must not have had her long, for she didn't seem entirely familiar with the lists. He had to turn her several times before she lined up accordingly. _She'll speed up when we meet,_ Lyanna suspected. Fresh coursers were spirited and likely to act over energetic when faced with excitement.

Lyanna shifted her mount. The armor Howland had foraged for was not accommodating to Lyanna's figure. The sizes were inaccurate and poorly constructed. They were most likely intended for a beggarly squire or hedge knight, not a young lady. Her breastplate was far too thin and the metal had been dented and scratched. It was shorter than most armor, leaving her sides evidently exposed. Her arms were covered in sheets of warped iron that bit into her skin painfully.

_Defend me, Lyanna. I know you could do it._

Howland Reed's voice echoed through her head, and she gritted her teeth. "I will defend him," she hissed to herself. Howland Reed's honor was called into question the day the three squires attacked him, and it was Lyanna's place to restore Howland's good name to him. It was a Stark's duty to defend their people. They had ruled the harsh North for thousands of years, protecting and defending all who dwelled there. Lyanna was a Stark, that much she knew without a doubt._ Even when they try to make me a stag, covering me in a different house's cloak, I will always be a wolf of Winterfell,_ she thought with pride. _I will bring the justice of the North upon all who question the strength of our honor and the size of our power. _

Grasping the freshly painted shield at her arm, Lyanna led her palfrey forward and turned to face the king. She dipped her lance into the dirt for the third time that day and bowed her head. King Aerys stared straight ahead, his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a shrewd line. They said the Targaryens had dragon's blood in their veins. They said it made them mad. Lyanna wondered if it was true.

The weirwood tree on her shield glimmered in the sunlight, its jovial red face laughing through the gash in its trunk. It had chipped slightly when the knight of House Blount had shattered his lance against it, but the tree still shown proudly. Howland Reed had a steady hand and painted the shield himself. "A weirwood," he had announced. "For the North."

_Defend._

"For Howland," Lyanna whispered to herself as she reached the end of the lists and turned to face the knight of House Frey. The crowd gave a roar; the ladies clapped brightly while the men muttered to one another over bets. Lyanna didn't doubt the bets were in her favor. She had won two jousts that day. One against a knight from House Haigh and one from House Blount.

Leaning forward on the black palfrey, Lyanna watched as the Frey knight's filly restlessly stomped at the ground. Sweat burned her eyes and seeped into her chapped lips.

The horses sprang forward, their hooves pounding against the ground like thunder. Lyanna shifted her weight and waited for the right moment. The white filly raced down the lane, quickening as they clashed at the center. As the knight placed his lance low, Lyanna countered his stance, but was too late. His lance crushed into her breastplate with a sickening pain. Lyanna hunched over her palfrey at the burning in her shoulder, but kept her seat. Her breath was ragged and her throat tightened. Lyanna forced herself to breathe through the pain. Her breastplate was caved in, the point of the lance denting the cheap metal.

The audience screamed for the knight. Lyanna peered over her shoulder and saw the young courser prancing at the far end of the list, the knight waving to the crowd.

"Come on," she growled in an undertone. She would not be bested by this pompous fool. Yanking her palfrey's reins, Lyanna glared out of her helm and waited.

The beasts charged again, and she prepared for the knight's position to alter. His legs pushed upward in his stirrups. He meant to go high. Lyanna countered him, her body tightening around the horse beneath her. Her lance hit the knight cleanly in the shoulder, sending him sprawling on the ground, but not before his lance shattered into her side.

For a moment her body felt numb. All Lyanna could hear was the roaring crowd, their cheers flooding her ears as they screamed for the mystery knight who bore a laughing tree on his shield. A smile spread across her lips and Lyanna laughed, for she had won. All three houses she had beaten. Haigh, Blount, Frey. Howland was pardoned of any shame or slight. She had defended him.

"Teach your squire honor," she bellowed down to the knight crouching in the dirt. He slipped off his helm, his mouth gaping open in shock.

Her stomach felt odd. Looking down, Lyanna saw blood. Fear flooded her conscience and her breath caught in her throat. A groan escaped her lips when she saw it.

A chunk of the Frey knight's lance was protruding from her side. The light green tunic she wore was blooming a violent shade of red, the warm liquid seeping through the fabric. Her gloved hand shook as she reached down and clutched the wood, sliding it from her side. The bloodied wood slipped through her fingers and hit the ground. With every rise of breath her chest took, her side harbored a deep searing pain. Lyanna bit into her cheek to keep from falling off her mount. Hot blood welled in her mouth and she fought the urge to cry out. The piece of wood had embedded itself nearly three inches into her flesh, leaving a massive gash in her side. She felt nauseous and could taste acidic bile rising in her throat. Lyanna choked on the blood and felt it slide down her chin in fat drops. The helm was hot and everything felt wrong.

Leaning on the black palfrey, she felt her hair slide inside the helm. Lyanna moaned. She had to find Howland, her brothers—anyone. They could help her.

She urged the beast forward, and felt a jolt of pain with each step he took. "Faster," she gurgled through blood and saliva. The palfrey began to trot, and Lyanna clung to the horse in desperation.

The crowd parted for her, some still cheering while others muttered to one another. They could tell something was wrong.

Lyanna found Howland in the back of the crowd. Their eyes met and his widened when he saw the wound. "Ride around those tents," he pointed down the path. "Make a left and meet me in the black tent with the green flags." He was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

Doing as he told her, Lyanna barely managed to slip off the palfrey before she crumpled to the ground in front of the black tent. The horse reared up, stomping, before trotting off. Everything felt askew. Her head felt light, and her eyes blurred everything they saw together in a flurry of colors. Black spots danced across her vision, and Lyanna retched. Blood splattered the inside of her helm and the disturbing scent of bile filled her nose.

"Help me," she croaked to Howland's distorted figure. She tried to speak to him again, but her throat felt clogged.

"Shhh," he whispered gently. "You're going to be find, Lyanna, I promise. Hold on." He helped drag her inside the tent. She was vaguely aware of her surroundings and could barely manage to keep her stomach down. Howland dragged her onto a blanketed bed in the corner of the tent. It was soft, so very soft. If only she could sleep for a moment, just enough to give her eyes some rest, perhaps the pain would go away then. . .

"No, my lady. You must stay awake," Howland slid the helm from her face and gently held her neck forward. Slipping a rag into her mouth, he began to remove the armor from her chest.

Oh, the pain. She had never felt such blinding pain before. Her tunic was wet with blood, and Howland used a small knife at his waist to cut the cloth. Lyanna couldn't bare to look at the wound, so instead she stared at the tent's black interior. She wondered who's encampment it was, and what would happen if anyone found them there. She began to ask the crannogman when her wound began to burn with a sudden fierce agony. Lyanna's eyes twitched and rolled beneath her eyelids and she surely would have begun to scream if not for the cloth in her mouth. The scent of strong bitter wine filled the air. He poured more boiling wine into the weeping flesh, cleansing it. His strong forearm pressed into her shoulders holding her down. "Shhh, my lady. You have to be strong. Forgive me, this will be painful."

Each finger he pressed into the wound felt like a hot dagger, stabbing into the skin over and over again. Tears blinded Lyanna's vision and her chest felt as if weights were piled atop of it. She trembled with sobs, thick tears falling down her cheeks.

Eventually, Lyanna's gaze was completely obscured by black spots, bursting in and out of her line of sight. This seemed to go on for hours, and soon she couldn't distinguish the black of the tent's interior to the black of her mind's illusions. Once or twice, she saw Howland's earthly green eyes looking down at her, or felt his callused hand stroking her hair back in a way that reminded her of her mother.

All Lyanna could smell was blood, burning flesh, and wine. It repulsed her, making her want to gag. To block out the terror she was feeling, Lyanna thought was of the gardens of Winterfell and how sweet the icy winter roses would smell compared to the garish hell she was being devoured by. She longed for her home, sadly realizing how she had let her childhood and youth slip through her fingers so quickly.

Howland pressed something hot into Lyanna's side and all she could feel was looming sadness as she became completely submerged in the blackness.

* * *

Lyanna's side blistered in pain and felt twisted and gruesome to the touch. Her milky white stomach was now marred by the scorched skin. Running her fingers gently over the flesh, Lyanna felt the puckered skin and flinched. It was still so very tender. She stared at the spot in her reflection and was captivated by the scar. It ran vulgarly down her side, all the way to her hip bone in a jarring line. Biting her bottom lip, Lyanna pressed a wine soaked cloth into the skin as Howland had instructed.

"Bind it before every evening before you go to sleep," he had told her. "You must wake early, before your hand maidens and cleanse it. No one can know."

"They won't," she swore. "I'll make sure no one finds out."

The burning wound wasn't the only injury she had sustained in her jousting affairs. Her shoulder was warped with black and purple bruising, the skin swelling slightly, the veins on her chest bursting through her pale skin, vibrant with dark colors. She had made sure to wear her thick dark hair in front of her, making it cover the blackened skin. The skin of her arms were slightly bruised as well from the cheap ill-fitting armor her had worn.

Once she had finished binding it in soft cloth, Lyanna slipped on her small clothes. _No one will find out_, she assured herself. _The Knight of the Laughing Tree will remain a mystery to all except Howland Reed of Greywater Watch and myself._

* * *

**A/N: Sorry to end it here, folks. I wanted to keep going, but thought Rhaegar/Lyanna meeting could wait for the next chapter. I have a feelings you will all love it when it comes. The beginning of this one starts off with what will be coming next chapter! **_  
_

**Pretty please let me know how I'm doing. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Oh, god. I feel so bad. I'm sorry it took so long, guys! This chapter was a challenge for me, and took FOREVER to write. Sadly, it's not all I promised you. Good things take time and only get better with age, so I hope you'll forgive me. Anyway, hope none of this is confusing and if it is let me know! Thanks so much for the reviews, they make me so incredibly happy! :) **

**Disclaimer: GRRM is king.**

Chapter 4

"The mystery knight has not yet revealed himself, Your Grace." Lord Whent spoke in a hurried voice, his chins wobbling as he bowed his head. "It seems, despite your commands, the knight does not wish to be unmasked. I have s-sent," he took a moment to clear his throat. "I have sent out ten of my best guards to search for him, Your Grace, but so far they have been most unfortunate. . . ." Lord Whent coughed wetly into his plump hand and raised his watery blue eyes to the king in anticipation.

Aerys shifted his weight in the high seat, his features pinched in irritation and anger. He was not known for his forgiveness or tender heart, and the hall held its breath for the Mad King to reply.

"Only cravens cower behind a mask before their king," Aerys hissed. Lord Whent stood silent, his eyes focused on the stone floor. "I want him found. I will not have a traitor among us," the king spat. "Send twenty men out-fifty if you are as incompetent as you appear, my lord. I will not have my orders disregarded, do you understand?"

Lord Whent's chins wobbled vigorously as he nodded. "As you wish, Your Grace. I will-I will send more men at o-once."

* * *

Her northern eyes grew wide when she saw him, and Ser Arthur Dayne barely managed to keep a smile off his face. She blushed a lurid pink, her cheeks flooding with heat, accompanied by a guilty tilt of her lips.

"Forgive me, ser. If I had noticed your presence. . . ." Her teeth teased her full lips in nervous habit, making him break his restrained expression. Ser Arthur gave a hearty laugh, his chest rumbling beneath his armor. It felt good to laugh, the pleasure had been rare as of late, what with Aerys becoming even more suspicious of Rhaegar, and his bitterness swelling by the day.

His outburst seemed to make Lyanna Stark relax a bit, her shoulders relenting their tension and a relieved smile appearing on her face. He had walked up to her so discreetly, she had not heard him, her eyes trained on the joust. In her moment of oblivion, she had forgotten herself, muttering furious obscenities under her breath just loud enough for him to hear. It had shocked Ser Arthur, having never heard such words from a lady's mouth, but then again, the Stark's never failed to astound him. Lady Lyanna seemed to be no exception.

"I take it you enjoy the joust?"

She snorted. "I'd enjoy it more if my brother had half a brain. He jousts like a fool."

Brandon Stark had broken two lances against Rhaegar so far, and his attempts to unseat the prince had proved fruitless.

"And what would my lady know of such a dangerous sport?" Ser Arthur inquired with a teasing tone, glancing sideways at the young maid.

Her smile drooped and her neck hitched itself higher in the air. "Far more than Brandon, I should think. Perhaps even more than you, Ser Arthur." Her eyes glittered playfully in the afternoon sunlight.

"And Prince Rhaegar, my lady?" He questioned. "What of him?"

Lady Lyanna's eyes flashed at the name, her spine straightening slightly. Tilting her head, she observed the crowned prince atop his powerful black destrier. Ser Arthur wondered what she saw when her eyes fell upon him. To him, he only saw a dear friend. There was no 'crowned prince' to Ser Arthur. There was only Rhaegar. Rhaegar the dour, brooding boy he had watched grow into a warrior, friend, and finally a king.

Rhaegar was, no doubt, a very handsome man. His hair was spun of silver, draping his face in easy waves, and his eyes were a dark, stormy lilac. He was strong and he was able. Some said he was fashioned by the gods, designed by the Seven to rule. Ser Arthur knew that was a farce. Rhaegar was just a man. He breathed, he fought, he lived just as any other. But at times it seemed, even to Ser Arthur, the farce was true. The Silver Prince was magnificent, and Ser Arthur could see it in Lyanna Stark's eyes, just as he had seen in countless others' before, she thought so, too.

After a few moments, she spoke.

"The prince is a fine jouster," her gaze tore from Rhaegar and fell on Ser Arthur with modesty. "But he is just a man, and all men are fools."

Arthur Dayne's lips twisted into a broad smile. _She's sharp,_ he thought. _She's a Stark, she must be._

His eyes took a moment to study the only daughter of Rickard Stark. He had heard many things about her, not all of them agreeable in society's eyes. She possessed the qualities of the North. Her hair was dark as a raven's wings, hanging simply to her waist in the northern fashion. She stood lean, although a woman's figure was not entirely absent. Her neck was elegant and atop it sat a slender face. Her eyes were a haunting grey, and peered at the world through thick eyelashes. She was intriguing, he observed.

Lyanna must have felt his gaze, and turned her head to look at him.

Her polite smile grew wicked. "I've always wanted to look into a man's eyes while holding a greatsword as fearsome as Dawn."

_So,_ he thought. _The she-wolf loves a dance with swords._

Ser Arthur unsheathed the greatsword from his back and watched Lyanna's eyes grow wide in adoration.

"May I?" She asked without taking her eyes off Dawn. Ser Arthur held it out for her. Her pale hands almost matched the shade of the milk glass, her deft fingers running along the sword feverishly. She lifted it from his hands, weighing it, checking the balance, admiring the ordinate hilt. With surprising strength, Lyanna held the greatsword in her right hand and lifted in up to the light, turning her wrist to better observe the blade. "It's beautiful," she breathed.

With a practiced elegance, Lyanna twisted it downward in an arch, the blade slicing through the air with a controlled grace. She had worked with swords many a times before, and the sound of steel was not foreign to the Stark girl. Her smile broadened with every passing moment the sword was in her grasp, as if it was giving her everything she could possibly want. She remembered herself suddenly, and stopped flourishing the weapon. Lyanna's face reddened and her teeth worried at her bottom lip. She stepped forward and placed the glorious sword back into its owner's hands.

"It is a true sword. Fitting, I think, ser," her gown fluttered about her ankles in the breeze. "A true sword for a true knight."

Her mention of a true knight made Ser Arthur's stomach clench. Lyanna bowed fluidly, her slender neck bending to her chest. "I'm no true knight," he muttered. She looked up in puzzlement, her grey eyes confused.

"Prove to me you are not, and only then shall I believe it, ser."

Ser Arthur had heard of Lyanna's willful nature. The knight of the kingsguard had heard disapproving whispers of a girl who fought like a man and rode like a Dothraki horse lord. During his time in the young lady's presence, he doubted none of the whispers. She definitely had wolf's blood in her.

The crowd gave a cry of anticipation.

Lyanna's head snapped back around to watch as Rhaegar's black destrier charged forward to meet Brandon in the center of the list. The audience shouted as clouds of dirt churned in the air. Ser Arthur heard Lyanna's intake of breath, and felt an anxious hum in his stomach.

There was a clash like thunder, and Rhaegar strode his mount to the end of the list, removing his helm in triumph, his silver tresses tumbling out. The audience screamed in adoration. They truly loved him.

Brandon Stark struggled to his feet, covered in dirt, and removed his helm. His squire raced to help him.

"What an idiot!" Lyanna huffed. "Rhaegar was veering left, Brandon, you dolt. How could you not notice?" The northern girl's brows were furrowed in irritation, her mouth set in a furious line. Ser Arthur chuckled to himself.

The heir of Winterfell stormed across the yard, handing his helm to his awaiting squire. His face was flushed from the heat and his dark hair was matted with sweat. He gave a polite nod to Ser Arthur, but when he caught sight of Lyanna, his facial expression altered to confusion. "Aren't you supposed to be in the stands, Lyanna? With the other ladies?"

The notion seemed distasteful to the northern girl, her nose crinkling in displeasure. "I find their company boring and unpleasant. I don't view any conversation pertaining to hair design satisfactory."

"You're supposed to be acting like a proper lady, dearest sister." Brandon made a swipe at her with a gloved fist, a smile alighting his handsome face. All his hand caught was dusty air. Lyanna was swift, her silken blue dress floating softly in her wake.

Lyanna gave an exuberant laugh. "When will you learn, sweet brother?" She called twirling around him, her dress billowing in the warm breeze. "I am not a lady now, and shan't be one for as long as I live!"

Ser Arthur watched with a joyous smile as the two Stark siblings pranced around each other in a frivolous dance, Lyanna's grin burning bright upon her fair face.

Prince Rhaegar rode his horse from the other side of the list and approached them. The rubies encrusted on his black armor glimmered like drops of blood in the sun.

Ser Arthur walked up to the destrier, falling to one knee.

"Well met, my prince." He looked up at Rhaegar, but the melancholic lilac eyes he knew so well did not meet his. Instead, he saw the prince's gaze trained upon the Starks. He could hear Brandon's bawdy laughter along with Lyanna's harmless taunts. The light reflected off Rhaegar's silver hair, illuminating his face in an enchanting glow. A smile reveled across his parted lips.

"When will you ever learn to grow up, sister? I tire of your childish games," Brandon rasped. His thick muscled arm was wrapped around Lyanna's waist, his breath labored.

Lyanna gave a wolfish grin. "I will grow up when you learn how to joust, Brandon." She slipped from his grasp and drifted on light feet. Her cheeks was a lustrous pink, creating a bright contrast of color on her light skin. "Which, in other words, means _never_." She laughed once more, filling the air with the sweet sound.

Rhaegar Targaryen looked down upon the northern girl with a bemused expression. It was similar to the one he wore while reading his books. Bewildered, he gazed on Lyanna Stark with curious eyes, enthralled by the audacity she possessed, the oddity that became her, the harshness that encircled her. She was the North; her daunting grey eyes challenging all who met them, her lips playing a game of smiles and hiding a pack of snarls.

A wolf she was and a wolf she would always be.

* * *

Lyanna's gown was cinched tightly on her ample waist, the folds of silk draping down the length of her legs, whispering against the floor with her every step. The fabric was dyed a bruised purple, like withered violets, and fit Lyanna's pale complexion and grey eyes nicely. The bodice was shapely and kind to her chest, giving Lyanna's figure prominence, much to her dismay. The sleeves floated from her arms down to the ground, gliding with her strides. Her shoes were made of supple leather and delicate silk. Her dark hair tumbled to her waist in waves, modestly styled in the northern fashion. Tendrils of hair hung down her front, masking the bruising on Lyanna's shoulder. Her side wound was in the process of healing, but still grieved her, the marred skin stinging with every movement she made as if the Frey knight's lance were still burrowed in her flesh.

Lyanna had flinched when the gown was pulled firmly against her body, pressing into her tender side. She might have gasped, for her handmaidens had asked if anything was wrong. She would have to be more wary. No one could suspect she was hurt. She had a secret to keep-for her and Howland both.

They had gotten the armor off of Lyanna's bloodied body not without effort, the cloth clenched in between her teeth to help her cope with the pain. She had screamed in anger, agony, and fear as Howland pressed a burning poker into her wound, burning the flesh together. Tears had coated her sweaty face and had tasted sweet on her lips. Howland's arm dug into her bruised shoulder as he held her down against the bed. She had clutched at the blankets to help relieve her pain, hoping to distract herself from the horrible smell of burning skin.

Once he had properly bound the wound, Howland had covered her in a cloak and let her lean on him. Together, they had discarded the worthless armor in a pile of rusting scrap metal, but hadn't had time to rid themselves of the painted shield. Lyanna wouldn't be capable of standing much longer, and her legs had started to lose their strength. Howland had tucked the shield under her long cloak, and taken it upon himself to hide it inside the the Stark's tent. All her brothers were absent.

Howland had laid Lyanna down on the bed, folding the shield in her ragged cloak. "Tomorrow," he had whispered. "Tomorrow I will get rid of it, but for now it shall stayed hidden here."

"Where?" Lyanna had choked out. He smoothed her hair back gently. _Ned used to stroke my hair_, she had thought deliriously. _When I was just a little child. . . but not anymore. I'm no longer a young girl, but a woman grown-betrothed. . . ._

"Beneath Eddard's bed," he murmured. "I will be able to grab it without looking suspicions," Ned had suggested they sleep together, and the two of them seemed to get along well.

Lyanna's clammy hand tightened on Howland's warm fingers. "Be careful. . ." She croaked, exhausted, before her neck tilted on the pillow and the tension disappeared from her pale face.

The memory made her knees shake. She could still taste the blood in her mouth at times, or smell the stench of sour wine.

_No one can know._

* * *

"My lords and ladies," King Aerys called out across Harrenhal's great hall. The music faded away and the sound of laughter ceased. "It appears," Aerys began in a harsh voice, his mouth puckered in a cruel snarl, "that we have a traitor among us. I have given this mystery knight-this craven!-time to reveal himself, and much to my dismay, he has disobeyed my wishes. By disobeying his king, he has disobeyed us all! I urge you, in the name of your king and the noble houses you serve, to hunt this traitor down. Bring me his head!" The Mad King spat. The hall grew silent, all merriment washing away in the face of the king. "He is no friend of mine, I assure you. Those of you who still attain a speck of honor will do me this service."

Lyanna's chest constricted painfully and her mouth was parted in shock. She hadn't expected this, no one had expected this. She had known the king had wanted the Knight of the Laughing Tree unmasked, but had never expected his rage to escalate this far. Everyone had questioned the identity of the mystery knight, but Lyanna knew only King Aerys would take the gesture to a slight.

"Give me an axe and I'll cut the craven's head off myself!" Robert Baratheon slurred in a drink induced fury. His face was bright red, his lips stained with summer wine. Slamming his large fist down onto the table, the goblets and plates trembled. "I say we hunt him down!"

Lyanna's stomach felt uneasy and the warmth of the hall was beginning to press down on her. Other cheers rang throughout the hall in accordance. _No one can know. . . _. The energy was heating up, Lyanna saw numerous men reach for swords.

"Just one moment, my lords." A nasally voice broke through the clamor. The Frey knight Lyanna had beaten in the joust strode up to their bench, stopping in front of Howland. Lyanna immediately moved her body forward to better protect the crannogman as a precaution. The way the Frey stared at Howland resonated a sense of ferocity in Lyanna. She did not like the malicious glint in his eyes, nor the dirty smirk on his wormy lips. "I think I found our man right here. Never trust a frog-eater, I always say." There was an uproar in the large hall.

Lyanna's lips twisted in anger and she stepped in front of Howland. "How dare you!" She growled through her teeth. "This Howland Reed, heir to Greywater Watch, a bannerman to the Starks." Lyanna was aware of Ned's hand locking around her forearm, holding her back. She glared at the knight with a newfound rage.

"So," he chuckled. "The wolf bitch can bark. I was told to watch for the bite."

A cruel smile appeared on Lyanna lips and she leaned forward despite Ned's grip on her arm. "Trust me," she snarled. "The bite's much worse, my lord."

"_Lyanna_," Brandon warned. He stepped between the two bodies, severing their connection. "Take her back to the tent," he spoke calmly. "Now."

Ned glanced at Brandon in question. The two locked eyes momentarily before Ned turned and lead Lyanna through the crowded hall.

* * *

_Does the madman realize he is mad?_ Rhaegar had been plagued by that question for years. He had read somewhere that the madman believes what he wishes to believe. In his forthright opinion, Rhaegar regarded it to be true. He only needed to look at his father for the proof.

"Rhaegar," his father's voice snapped. The prince stepped forward to meet the king's gaze. His lilac eyes burned dark and vivid; the only indication he was not pleased by his father's actions. The whole hall had nearly ended in bloodshed, even a fool could see that plain enough.

"Where all others have failed," he rasped, "you must prevail."

_Does the madman realize he is mad? _

Rhaegar nodded with a slight dip of his head.

**A/N: . . .**

**PLEASE DONT MURDER ME. I'M SO SO SO SO SORRY! I WAS GONNA PUT THE LYANNA/RHAEGAR SCENE IN BUT THIS CHAPTER WAS A BITCH AND I WAS SO OVERWHELMED BY IT AND ALL THE DETAILS I HAD TO PUT IN THAT I COMPLETELY FREAKED OUT. I wanted to, TRUST ME, I wanted to so badly, but under the circumstances, I felt like that scene wasn't possible for this chapter :(**

**BUT NEXT CHAPTER I PROMISE. **

**Let me know what you think, hopefully you all were't as disappointed in me as I was. Personally, I felt like this chapter was a pile of crap, and I apologize. I need to get my shit together. **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey guys! I am so terribly sorry it took so long. I won't lie to you, I waited about ten days before actually getting started on this one, so I really have no excuse. Please don't kill me. Enjoy! :)**

**_Disclaimer:_ GRRM is a literary genius blah blah blah owns pretty much my soul.**

Chapter 5

The cloak was tattered and stunk of blood.

It hung heavy on her shoulders, the hem sweeping against the courser's flanks as Lyanna clutched the extra folds to her chest. The shield bounced against her side with each stride, its presence weighing down her conscience. She thought of the weirwood's laughing face, its eyes and mouth weeping red sap. Suddenly, the sigil didn't seem particularly amusing to Lyanna Stark.

"Come on," she murmured to the horse, pressing her boots into its side. She leaned forward and felt the hooves pounding against the ground with a newfound speed. The hood of the cloak fluttered against Lyanna's cheeks and she reached up to pull it tighter to her face. They were searching for her, she knew. The lords had taken the king's rouse to heart, and she had heard them blundering past on their steeds from inside the Starks' tent, each man swearing he would be the one to bring Aerys the mystery knight's head. Lyanna didn't doubt their sincerity, least of all Robert Baratheon's. Her betrothed had seemed most adamant about finding the knight, his handsome face flushed with wine. He would be at the head of the pack, leading the men with an infectious fury. Robert always loved being in the very thick of things, he liked to feel the blood on his hands.

The thought of Robert surrounding her with all his men did horrible things to her nerves, for whatever Robert Baratheon might be, he was certainly a fierce warrior. Would he spare her? When his eyes fell upon the shield, clutched in his sweet lady's hands, would he hesitate? Lyanna commanded herself to stop, she needed a clear head tonight and couldn't afford to lose focus. She needed to stay in control.

She could hear shouts in the distance, and when her courser fled over the top of the hills, Lyanna could see tiny pinpricks of torchlight dancing against the darkness. The sun had set beyond the horizon, leaving a soft glow to guide her.

Lyanna dared not bring a torch with her. Though she was a great deal away from Robert and the other lords, the chance of discovery was far too risky. Instead, she had chosen to face the night on her own with only the moon to guide her way. The courser's breath steamed in the evening light, swirling up into the air before vanishing completely.

After riding hard over the darkened land, Lyanna pulled the courser into a slower trot. She could hear the sound of the river rushing, the moonlight striking down against the rippling water. The cloak brushed against Lyanna's face and she once more yanked forward. Her fingers shook as she gripped the reins tighter.

Lyanna had never felt fear like this. It was cold, unlike the hot fear churned with adrenaline on the practice yard, or the pumping burning fear before a joust. The evening's shadows closed in around her, tricking her mind and betraying her eyes. She felt very alone. The land was silent, the shouts had nearly faded in the distance. Her breath steamed hot in the brisk air and a chill crept its way up her spine.

What was a lone wolf without its pack?

* * *

The grass licked against Rhaegar's calves as he made his way silently across the long field. Mud splattered his boots and he could feel the hair clinging to the back of his neck. His breath was warm against his face and the prince's heart thrummed against his chest in a strong, steady beat.

The prince found his muscles tensing even before he spotted him. The rider was in a long cloak which spread along the back of a courser. Rhaegar couldn't see their face due to the hood they wore and the darkening sky. He skirted along the ground. The rider's courser flicked its tail and strode over the damp grass. The rider pulled the hood more tightly to their face and surveyed their surroundings. Rhaegar made very little sound as his feet glided through the soft grass, and he retreated to his own mount.

_Does the madman realize he's mad?_ The words echoed through Rhaegar's mind like a twisted mantra.

* * *

Lyanna turned her neck around and what she saw made her stomach wrench in panic. A rider- and he was riding towards her, his horse plundering against the land. Without thinking of the consequences, she dug her boots into the courser's sides and leaned forward, preparing for the flight. The horse gave a whine and surged forward on her command. The tangled mane danced in the air like flames and Lyanna felt the cold air howl against her face.

* * *

_Gods, he's fast,_ Rhaegar thought as he urged his courser for more speed. The rider was foolish, they were riding straight at the river, they had no where to go, no way out. The fact that they were fleeing meant they had something to fear, something to be fleeing from. Rhaegar forced the courser to ride harder. The beast's sides were heaving with exhilaration, and Rhaegar found himself quiet breathless. The rider had come to the river's bank and was trapped, and unless they were reckless enough to try and avoid Rhaegar by changing direction and heading upriver, they were going to be forced to stop.

* * *

Lyanna clutched at the reins so tightly that her knuckles were white and her palms burned against the leather. Her chest was swelling painfully with her every breath, and the cursed dress was digging into Lyanna's waist. She felt terribly sick, and the sweat across her brow was cold and clammy. The air was frigid as it rushed down her throat and the northern girl felt dizzy with worry. The panic made her heart pump faster. She didn't know what to do, the rider was closer now and she could hear his horse's hooves beating furiously into the ground. The river rushed at her side and Lyanna's brain felt clogged. She was trapped. Trapped like a frightened animal.

Lyanna bit her cheek in fury. She wasn't a weakling, she was a wolf. Her dark hair spilt from inside the hood and snapped at her face. She made a decision.

Her horse whined in protest as she pressed her boots into its sides. The water churned under them and Lyanna gritted her teeth. The river plundered into the courser's legs, spraying them both. Water trickled down her cheeks and stung her eyes. They beast heaved against the current and the water foamed around its legs. The horse's scream cut through the air. It reared and Lyanna felt herself being thrown from its back. She was in the air only moments before the river swallowed her.

She was young once more: a little girl in the springs of Winterfell, her legs kicking wildly in the water as she tried to swim. Ned held his arms out to her. She reached for him, clawing at the water. He wore a serious expression on his face while Brandon laughed and cheered her on. She could reach him, only a little further. . .

Lyanna threw her arm out, waiting for Ned to reach out and take her hand. Only he didn't. She tried to cry out for him, but the water flooded her mouth. She couldn't breathe. Lyanna's tiny fingers scratched at the surface of the spring as she sunk. _Ned! _She screamed._ Ned, Brandon! Help me, please. . . . _Their faces blurred above the water and everything went black. Black and cold. Her very bones felt weighted down as the water dragged her under. Bubbles of air drifted from her mouth and her hair wafted with the current. _Ned. . . Brandon. . . please. . . ._

Suddenly, strong arms encompassed her body and heaved her from the river. Water gushed from her mouth as she choked down air. It tasted so sweet.

Lyanna could hear her courser screaming against the pounding of the river's current. She tried to twist her neck to see the poor creature, but her eyes stung with water. Bursts of pain in her chest made Lyanna want to cry out, but she resisted and swallowed her tears. Rivulets of water cascaded down her face and Lyanna couldn't remember the last time she felt so cold. Her fingers trembled as she clutched to the body that held her.

They came up onto the grass and Lyanna felt herself being lowered. Rolling onto her stomach, Lyanna coughed out more water, shoulders shaking with the effort. A hand reached down, "Leave me be," Lyanna snarled, teeth bared. She snapped her head around, only to see Rhaegar Targaryen staring down at her.

Lyanna's breath caught in her chest and burned her throat. But she didn't move, couldn't. She was frozen. Frozen like the stone statues under Winterfell and the bones of kings trapped in their tombs. Lyanna fought the panic that threatened to overcome her. Her hands quivered in the folds of her soggy cloak, but not out of fear. His presence was unsettling, and it made her stomach writher and her heart thrash in its cage of bone. His dark eyes peered at her, his expression unreadable. She felt so young under his gaze, nothing but a little girl. She slowly stood, backing away from the prince and felt her spine dig into something hard. A large tree jutted up into the air and Lyanna felt, once again, like a helpless animal caught in a trap.

Slowly, he unsheathed his sword from his hip and pointed it, almost idly, at her stomach, in a way that suggested he meant no ill will. Still, the gesture set her teeth on edge and she immediately felt her muscles tighten.

"Remove your hood," he commanded, his voice surprisingly tranquil. Water dripped from tendrils of his hair.

Lyanna reached up with shaking fingers and grasped the coarse material. Her breath came in hollow rasps now, the heat misting and twirling about her face. Slowly, almost gently, she slid the hood off her head. Her eyes never wavered from Rhaegar's and she could see the disbelief manifesting on his prominent features.

The prince's lilac eyes danced across her face, assessing her just as she regarded him. His lips were parted slightly, as if he were about to speak, but words seemed to fail him.

She ripped the soaking cloak from her shoulders and watched the shield tumble to the ground. The heart tree's laughing face stared up at her with its red sap dripping like blood.

Her voice was strangled as she spoke, "Do you think us so very different from one another?" His eyes seemed to smolder in the cold, blazing even in the darkness.

"No."

* * *

The roar for the crowd was like thunder. Rhaegar closed his eyes and there she was, like a shadow imprinted on his eyelids. He could feel the water dripping down his face and the cold spreading through his body like ice. Her eyes stared at him, grey and fierce and unrelenting.

_Do you think us so very different from one another? _

Her question rang through his head, taking the place of another.

They weren't so different, he found.

He snapped the visor on his helm shut and gripped the lance at his side. Dirt churned under the horse's hooves like the black water she had so easily fallen into. She was heavy in his arms, her cloak and dress weighing her down as he trudged through the river. Her face had been pale, the darkness under her bold eyes more pronounced. Her lips had trembled, but twisted and curved at she spoke, and her mass of dark hair had enclosed her fair face. She was beautiful. . . . But she was a tragedy, one he could not stop from falling. She had her duty and he had his, though the two paths were not so far apart, it seemed. She was brave and bold and fearless, reckless and angry and confused. They were not so different after all. She was beautiful, yes, but Rhaegar had seen the ruins of beauty before, inside a castle, destroyed in flames. Beautiful things often kill you in the end, he found.

**A/N: Okay. I went all confusing at the end which probably ended up being terrible so sorry about that. **

**Rhaegar is talking about Summerhall, the castle that burnt down the day he was born. **

**So, this chapter was probably the toughest to write. I feared I had lost track of the characters and so it took me forever to regain my mind frame of them. Basically, this was a mess. I wrote it half way about two times and then scraped the whole thing and then didn't like the ending a few times and mucked all that up and. . . well, I understand if it failed because I was getting so pissed off. Honestly, I've reread the whole thing so many times I could quote it in my sleep. **

**But anyways, if you didn't completely lose faith in the story feel free to let me know what you thought or how I could do better all that jazz. **

**Sorry. About all of it. I really am. I'm so tired and I'm gonna shut up now. . .**

**If you have any questions I'd be happy to answer them! :) **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:**** Hello, lovelies! Here's the next chapter, my deepest apologies it took so freaking long. I'm a lazy bitch who gets terrible writer's block. The combination is not particularly helpful or pretty. Enjoy! :)**

Chapter 6

Her lashes veiled her bold eyes as she glared indignantly up at him. Water skirted down her pale cheeks and clung to her skin in droplets. Her dusty violet gown was soaked and blotches of mud stained the fabric. Rhaegar had never noticed how young the Stark girl was, but he could see it now. The youth was subtle. She hid it well, so well-in fact, he almost couldn't see it. Rhaegar found the adolescent attributes in her mannerisms. The tilt of her head, the way her eyes flickered uncertainly at him, the habitual nip at her lip. He noticed them all, and her youth only made him wonder more. How could a girl-_a child_-be the mystery knight King Aerys had the whole river lands hunting down? Was she really the one? Could this girl, not yet five and ten, be the figure the crowds had cheered for; the riddle his father dreaded; the head so many lords wished to cut down?

Rhaegar spared another observatory glance at the lady of Winterfell.

The way Lyanna Stark held herself was valiant. Her shoulders were pinned back and her head was held high atop her neck. She looked the part of a woman, her hips curving softly beneath the fabric of her gown, her chest swelling amply. The prince could tell she was strong. Her build was feminine to an extent, but she had been raised among men, without a mother to teach her, only a maester whom had taught only boys. She would have rode and fought beside her brothers. Lyanna had grown up in the cold North and it had fashioned her from ice and stone; her bones were resilient, and her blood was old blood.

"Do you think us so very different from one another?" Lyanna choked. Breath coiled from her parted lips and billowed into the evening air. The night's sky grew gloomy and Rhaegar's sword, still pointed at Lyanna, glowed faintly in the darkness. The mystery knight had entered the lists to defend the name of Howland Reed; if Lyanna was the Knight of the Laughing Tree, that would mean she had entered for the sake of her house's honor. Rhaegar thought of himself in the face of duty. Would he elect to the same duty as Lyanna if their roles were reversed? If it were Arthur's honor or Jon's? He knew the answer.

"No." Rhaegar replied with certainty. This took the Stark girl aback. She peered up at him for a short eternity, her sharp grey eyes studying his violet ones. He felt their coldness ebb gently away.

* * *

Fatigue pressed down on Lyanna and she felt slightly sick. She desperately needed rest.

Her boots were muddy and wet, rubbing against her toes painfully, and the dress she wore was pasted to her skin underneath the cloak. Her side ached feverishly from the healing wound and her shoulders were painfully tight from riding. Lyanna welcomed the thought of sleep and wanted nothing more than to curl up under mountains of fur. Maybe then she would escape the cold that had soaked through her skin and flooded down to her bones.

The tent was silent when she entered, several candles flickering as the only source of light. Lyanna cringed as she stepped cautiously onto the rugs, praying to the gods her brothers and Howland wouldn't hear her. They were asleep, she reckoned.

Lighting a candle on her side table, Lyanna plunked the wet cloak from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor in a heap. Sliding the dress off her shoulders, the drenched fabric edged its way off her body, the delicate folds brushing against her legs until finally pooling in a pile around her ankles leaving Lyanna naked and shivering. Her pale flesh burst with goose bumps and she shook from the cold. "Sevens hells," she muttered, pulling back the blankets of her bed and crawling under the layers. Her hair was a tangled mess, ragged around her face with wet strands tumbling down her back. The last thing she saw before the candle was extinguished was that damned weirwood shield, the stark white object looming in the dark. Lyanna felt the ache at her side burn once more.

* * *

The laughing tree shield was tied to Rhaegar's hip and his arm brushed against it with every stride. Torches hung every few steps along the twisting tower and shrouded Rhaegar in an orange light, causing his shadow to follow him along the stone wall. The stairs stopped abruptly and Rhaegar's shadow became faint as he walked along a short hall to his father's rooms, leaving the light behind him.

Fingers brushing along the heavy wood, Rhaegar could feel the dents and splinters where Lyanna's opponents had rammed their lances in attempts to unseat her. His index finger traced delicately along the coats of paint, grazing the ridges of wood and tracing the lines of the laughing heart tree. He smiled to the darkness for reasons unbeknownst to him and the gesture seemed odd on his lips. The thought discouraged him. Was a smile such a rarity now? Rhaegar supposed for him it was. Too many things troubled him, he didn't have the luxury of dwelling on the simplicities of life. He was to be king soon, a burden that hung in the back of his mind constantly.

He came to a halt outside the heavy door to the Aerys's chambers. Four guards stood alert outside and bowed their heads at Rhaegar respectfully. His eyes grazed over Jaime Lannister, a young boy of fifteen and newly appointed member of the Kingsguard.

_A mistake_, Rhaegar judged, frustrated. The king had wanted to hold the boy over his father, Tywin Lannister's head, like a toy just out of the lion's claws. Now, the boy was in service of the king for life, with a shining gold cloak around his shoulders for good measure. The prince held back an angry sigh.

Rhaegar rapped against the door with a fist.

"Enter," he heard his father growl.

The fireplace roared with crackling flames, the tongues of orange, red, and yellow licking at the stone walls furiously. The heat was dizzying to Rhaegar, whom had been out in the numbing cold for so long.

The king sat in a straight backed chair by the fire, glaring into the flames.

"Father," the prince announced. In reply, the king raised a scabbed hand and flicked his boney fingers in beckoning. Rhaegar knelt beside the chair, bowing his head ever so slightly. The silver of his hair shown in the bright firelight, tendrils sweeping against his cheeks softly. The king's narrowed eyes stared at the dancing flames a moment longer before turning his attention to his son.

"Well," he hissed. "Did you find the him?"

"No," Rhaegar replied calmly, his voice even, hoping not to disturb his father into a rage. "But I did find this," he removed the shield from his side and presented it to the king. "His shield. Up in a tree."

Aerys took the shield in his hands, mouth tightening into a cruel line, eyes hardening at the sight. He stood and Rhaegar mirrored him, slowly getting to his feet, studying his father apprehensively.

The king walked closer to the fireplace, the powerful heat swelling with proximity, and stared down at the shield. The weirwood's laughing face seemed distorted in the glow of the flames and the smiling mouth became a twisted scream. Rhaegar watched his father run a withered hand along the painted sigil, stroking it maliciously before his arms jerked outward, thrusting the shield into the fire. Rhaegar witnessed silently as the shield burned among the smoldering wood. Smoke drifted into the room and the paint began to melt. The red paint began to dissolve, running along the shield like blood weeping from a wound. The king knotted his thin fingers behind his back and stood in front of the flames, letting the heat soak into his robes, letting the light glint off his crown.

The wood was beginning to burn black, all traces of the heart tree festering away in the fire. A sickening scent filled the room and Rhaegar struggled to maintain his composer. The wood caught fire fully and began to collapse. Rhaegar saw Lyanna's face. He saw her when he closed his eyes and thanked the gods it was not her being devoured by flames.

The fire spat sparks into the dark room and Aerys chuckled softly. "Go," he murmured to Rhaegar. "Attend to your little wife. The gods know she's weak-you're lucky that tiny babe didn't bring her to her death," Rhaegar clenched his jaw and stared at the ground. Aerys gave another bitter laugh. "I knew those Dornish were no good. Weak woman and spineless men, that's all they are. Ha! The Lannister brat would have produced you an heir by now, but I would have never have let Tywin get the better of us. He's not king," he rasped. "I am. I decide." Aerys turned away from the fire and stared at Rhaegar with a grin on his lips. "I am king, Rhaegar. Remember that," he warned in a low growl. "Don't think I didn't know what you planned on doing here. Gathering lords, ha! Your not king yet, boy! And as long as I stand, you won't be. Dragons don't die easy, Rhaegar."

"Do I have your leave to go, Your Grace?" Rhaegar asked placidly.

Aerys glared, his narrow eyes burning. He flourished a hand at Rhaegar. "Go," he snapped. Rhaegar reached the door with his hand on the handle when his father spoke again.

"You must have an heir, Rhaegar. The Tagaryens must keep the Iron Throne."

* * *

Rhaegar gazed down into the crib at his daughter lovingly. She slept soundly, her breathing quiet and even, her cheeks plump and rosy. She was a sweet child, full of bubbling laughter and curiosity. She loved to strum the cords of his harp, screaming with delight when a new sound pulsed from each one. She took after her mother, who's Dornish features were just beginning to appear on the child after nearly a year. Her hair was a soft brown and her eyes were a tender hazel as were Elia's. She looked every bit a Martell and their was no trace of Targaryen on her. His father, of course, loathed the fact, insisting the child was a bastard, that Elia was incompetent. Rhaegar quickly attended to his father's fury and denied his accusations as adamantly as possible.

Rhaegar turned his attention to his sleeping wife. She was pale, as pale as her dark complexion allowed. The color was drained from her cheeks and there were dark circles underneath her eyes. No one believed she would make it through the pregnancy. Her hips are too narrow, they said, her body too delicate. The birth itself had consumed all the energy Elia possessed and it had taken her months to regain her strength. She hadn't walked farther then the confinements of her rooms for two months after Rhaenys's birth. Even Rhaegar had his doubts, though he didn't allow them to show, and held onto Elia's hand through the whole thing. He remembered stroking her damp cheeks and planting small kisses her forehead, all the while, the princess held a pained smile on her sickly face.

She was a kind woman and Rhaegar admired her immensely. She was gentle and bright. Though her bones were thin and her body delicate, Elia had a sharp tongue, her only weapon among the lords and ladies of court. Her laugh was soft and her smiles discrete, and she held herself properly, with grace and a kind of ernest. She had not asked for his love and it was never given. Both of them understood that the marriage they shared was a business agreement, an interlocking of houses and nothing more.

Elia Martell was born in the blistering sands of Dorne and was accustomed to the sweltering heat. Rhaegar feared that not even a dragon's flames were hot enough for a daughter of the sun.

* * *

"Wake up! Wake up, Lyanna!" Benjen came tearing into the tent and leap up onto the bed shaking his sister.

"What-Benjen! What in seven hells are you _doing_, I'm trying to sleep! _Get off_!" She growled, burrowing her head underneath more furs in attempt to block out the noise her brother was rudely emitting from his small mouth. It was extraordinary to her that a person so tiny could produce such an annoying, ear splitting cacophony. She kicked him from under the blanket, and felt his yelp of dismay. "Get off!" Her muffled cry went unnoticed by the youngest Stark sibling.

"Brandon says you have to wake up! He says you have to be presentable." Lyanna peeked her head out from underneath a soft pelt. _Presentable?_ _Ha_! Brandon was fooling himself. She had been in bed all morning, recovering from her nightly exploit and wasn't ready to face the world, much less the stuffy ladies with silken gowns prattling on about one marriage or another. _What an utter bore_, Lyanna thought with a curl of her lips.

"Oh really, Ben? Is that what Brandon told you? Tell him to stuff it, he's wasting his time. I'm not going to bother."

"But Lyanna!" Her brother whined. "It's the last day of the tournament! We're going back to Winterfell tomorrow!" The thought of leaving sounded agreeable to Lyanna just then, she couldn't think of a more comfortable place. "There's lemon cakes, Lyanna, come on, we'll have fun! Get up!" He shook her again and she yelled into the pillow.

"Fine," she moaned in defeat. "I'll go, but I want two bloody lemon cakes this time." Benjen was smiling broadly, his pink cheeks blotchy with excitement, his dark locks windswept. "Go," she urged, swatting him with the back of her hand. "Tell the big bad Brandon I'm coming. I have to dress."

"Rhaegar's up against Ser Arthur Dayne today! And Ser Barristan the Bold! I overhead Ser Richard Lonmouth talking to Robert!" He yelled over his shoulder as he darted out of the tent.

Lyanna groaned to herself in the sudden quiet. "The mighty Rhaegar Targaryen," she whispered in a mocking coo. Lyanna pursed her lips and sat up. "The great dragon. . . ." She pressed her fingers into her temples and tried to wash the surge of images out of her mind. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably. "Savior to mystery knights everywhere. . . ."

* * *

"Ben," Lyanna shouted. "Wait! Ben!" But her younger brother didn't heed her calls. He was racing through the throng of people, anxious to get his hands on the tasty deserts being sold at the cart ahead. Lyanna growled in frustration. She'd lost him. Brandon was going to murder her when he found out. She ran an angry hand through her hair and grabbed a fist full of her gown. _Bloody, stupid, ridiculous dress!_ She thought irritably. She would have preferred one of her lighter, simpler dresses, one made of soft wool or cotton, but she knew Brandon would just force her to change. She had to look pretty for the ladies and lords, but for her betrothed most of all. She didn't see how it mattered, Robert would marry her whether or not she wore blue wool, and she was sure he didn't give a horse's arse what she covered herself with as long as it was easy for him to take off._ Bloody, stupid-_"Oh!" She started, stumbling into a breastplate. "Oh, gods!" She rubbed a hand furiously into her cheek, looking up, aggravated. Surely it wasn't _her_ fault! They should have been watching more closely to where. . . . "Ser Arthur!" She cried, suddenly pleased, despite an aching cheek.

His arms had gone out to steady her and he smiled. "Apologies, my lady," Lyanna snorted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She noticed the shield at his side, painted a deep lavender with House Dayne's sigil: a falling star crossing a sword.

"Jousting today?" She inquired with a smirk.

He nodded. "That is, if Rhaegar will give me a chance to get on my horse properly before knocking me to the ground."

Lyanna grinned, "Oh, I'm sure you'll do brilliantly. We can't let the prince have all the fun, he already has a kingdom, he doesn't need anything more."

"A kingdom is no easy feat, my lady, by all means, Rhaegar should be winning more jousts, it'll be all the fun he's going to have in a long time."

Lyanna erupted into laughter, "I suppose a kingdom isn't at all like 'Come into my castle,' then, is it?"

"I'm afraid not, my lady."

"Well, I suppose my plans to take over the kingdom are ruined. What a shame, I'd have liked to sit atop the Iron Throne. Although, I've heard it gives one a painfully sore arse, so it's a relief, really. A horse is a good enough seat for me, ser."

Ser Arthur shared her laughter. Benjen ran up then, lemon cakes clutched in his palms, the sticky sweet glaze dripping down his fingers. Ben was chewing, his mouth coated in bits of icing. "I got you three, Lyanna, I know you're always sore when you finish your second. . . ." The words seemed to drift off his lips when he realized who Lyanna was conversing with. "Erm, I-"

"Ben, this is Ser Arthur Dayne. You were right, he is jousting today," Lyanna slide a glance at Arthur and winked, her brother's face was still frozen in awe. She took her three lemon cakes in one hand and wiped Ben's face with her other. The boy swallowed and blushed, resorting to staring at his feet. Lyanna bit back a laugh. She took one of Ben's cakes out from his gooey fingers and handed it to Ser Arthur, "For good luck, my lord. I hate ribbons, so consider this your favor."

Ser Arthur raised an eyebrow and pointedly stared at the three cakes in her hand. "I'm a particularly selfish wench. Benjen was right, I'm always so sad when I finish two. You wouldn't want to see me so depressed in spirits when it comes time to cheer for you, would you, ser?"

Fluffing Benjen's hair, she lead him away to the stands, leaving a grinning Ser Arthur alone. The knight stared at the sweet cake in his hand momentarily before taking a bite.

* * *

The roar for the crowd was like thunder. Rhaegar closed his eyes and there she was, like a shadow imprinted on his eyelids. He could feel the water dripping down his face and the cold spreading through his body like ice. Her eyes stared at him, grey and fierce and unrelenting.

_Do you think us so very different from one another? _

Her question rang through his head, taking the place of another.

They weren't so different, he found.

He snapped the visor on his helm shut and gripped the lance at his side. Dirt churned under the horse's hooves like the black water she had so easily fallen into. She was heavy in his arms, her cloak and dress weighing her down as he trudged through the river. Her face had been pale, the darkness under her bold eyes more pronounced. Her lips had trembled, but twisted and curved at she spoke, and her mass of dark hair had enclosed her fair face. She was beautiful. . . . But she was a tragedy, one he could not stop from falling. She had her duty and he had his, though the two paths were not so far apart, it seemed. She was brave and bold and fearless, reckless and angry and confused. They were not so different after all. She was beautiful, yes, but Rhaegar had seen the ruins of beauty before, inside a castle, destroyed in flames. Beautiful things often killed you in the end, he found.

Rhaegar took a long breath to fill his lungs and steady his head. The prince faced forward, staring down the dusty list at Arthur Dayne. He dared not look to the stands, afraid that his focus would break.

The crowd was shouting, their screams muddled with that of their neighbors'. His horse steadied and kicked at the dirt. Grasping tightly at the reins, Rhaegar stared down his friend and smiled beneath his helm.

They charged at each other and Rhaegar watched for the dip in Arthur's lance, waiting for the opening. The lavender shield was freshly painted and glimmered in the sunshine, but Rhaegar had no intentions of hitting the shield and Arthur knew it, too. Pain shot up his arm and the muscles fought for control as his lance pierced through Arthur's defenses and bit into his shoulder. There was a collective gasp among the crowd and in the corner of Rhaegar's eye he could see the knight crashing into the dirt.

* * *

It took Ser Arthur several moments to regain his sense of surrounding. The world spun and tilted every time he opened his eyes and his body was wracked with pain. He breathed heavily, the noise of the crowd muffled by his helm. His fingers shook as he took ahold of the helm and pulled it free. The sun was blinding and Arthur inhaled dusty air. He sat up coughing. A squire helped him to his feet and Arthur announced his thanks to the young boy. Rubbing a hand along his sweaty face, Ser Arthur blinked. _Where's that bloody bastard_? he wondered, head turning dizzily to try and find Rhaegar. He grinned when he saw him. But his grin soon faded._ Oh gods_, he thought, his heart pounding heavily against his chest. _Rhaegar. . . ._

The thought was shattered before it became fully formed. Arthur watched with a mixture of awe and helpless confusion. The crowd had been conquered into silence by the scene unfolding before them.

* * *

Rhaegar's ears rung to the sound of cheering and he breathed vigorously into his helm. The prince shut his eyes to the raging commotion around him. Her question pulsed through his mind once more._ Do you think us so very different from one another?_ He felt her shaking fingers on his chest and recalled the awful sound her throat had made as she choked up water. He could see the drenched gown draped against her skin, saw the contours of her body silhouetted against the receding light, breathed the scent of the river and grass. The sword felt impossibly heavy in his hand, the hilt warm against his fingers. He suddenly felt a deep revulsion twist his gut. Why would he ever wish to harm her? The sword slipped through his fingers.

Rhaegar's inner musing were violently disrupted when he opened his eyes. He no longer held his lance and found he had dropped it. A squire retrieved it and bowed, offering the crown of winter roses to him. It was time to declare the Queen of Love and Beauty. He removed his helm, silver hair brushing against his face. He gazed down at the sweet blue flowers, fingers careful to evade the sharp thorns. The blue petals glowed against the black armor he wore and shone delicately in the sunlight. Rhaegar glanced up at the audience, all of whom were screaming his name or names of their chosen queen. He ignored them. His purple eyes flew over the stands and he made up his mind.

The mystery knight's true face was known to him and him only and he sought out her face hungrily. She sat among high lords and ladies, her untamed hair hanging wild to her waist, her grey eyes shining brightly. A grin fractured across her lips and she laughed, tossing back her head to letting out a spirited cry. The other ladies turned their heads away in displeasure, whispering furiously, but the northern girl didn't seem to care in the slightest.

Rhaegar urged his courser forward and felt the crowd's collective intake of breath as he passed Elia. He payed no mind to his lady wife or his father and simply rode down the stands, his heart pounding to the beat of hooves.

The yard had gone immensely quiet and the prince came to a halt in front of the Starks. He peered down at Lyanna Stark, who's laughter had faded but did not leave her eyes. Her brows furrowed in curiosity, lips protruding slightly. The wolf's grey eyes stared up at him and he suspected she didn't quiet understand. He felt a smile appear on his lips and he placed the crown into her lap. _Winter roses for a winter queen._ He heard the gasps, but for once didn't mind them. Rhaegar felt free.

* * *

His purple eyes held her captivated and Lyanna barely had time to realize what the prince meant to do. He lowered the crown of flowers into her lap and smiled. Lyanna's heart thrummed strangely against her chest and her breath fluttered between her lips. She had never seen him smile before, Lyanna realized, blood rushing to her cheeks. Targaryens were known to be beautiful but, _gods_, Rhaegar was different. His beauty was withdrawn. He kept it locked away underneath his duties and responsibilities. His smiles were rare and it was no common thing for the solemn dragon prince to unlock a smile and give it away. Lyanna would hold tight to the one he gave her and pray it never withered away.

**A/N: So, I hope you guys enjoyed it. This was a nice Rhaegar/Lyanna chapter where the two sorta dwell on each other a bit. I managed to squeeze in some Ser Arthur, for those of you who wanted to see more of him. Don't worry, he'll be back in upcoming chapters!**

**Please please with cherries on top _let me know what you think!_ I see this as a time for me to improve, so even if you have very little criticism for me, please, ANYTHING helps me, I'm not joking. If I don't describe things properly or if you want more out of a character and feel they're lacking something essential, please I beg you to speak your mind! I won't be sore, I promise! **

PS: ATTENTION!

I have received feedback from a lot of readers saying how they really enjoy my version of Lyanna and how they see her to be very similar to Arya. I have been thinking recently, that it would be extremely fun and engaging to write a future Arya fic. If you would be interested in reading this please let me know so I can see if it's worth it! I might just do it anyways, but reassurance is never a bad thing.

I would write about a future Arya, a much darker, harder, colder Arya who's been a Faceless Man in Braavos for a few years now and, of course, ends up in Westeros one way or another. I love her character dearly and would love to try my own take on her, so please let me know if that's interesting to you!

Throw some ideas you like at me for this project as well, I'd like to form a plot of sorts soon and telling me anything you'd like to see in it would be immensely helpful and much appreciated.

Okay, I'm done rambling now! Pop in a review if you feel like it :)


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Wow, what is wrong with me! I take forever, my apologies! Hope this chapter meets your expectations, I had fun writing it. We see some familiar faces this chapter btw! Pretty please enjoy yourself reading, I beg you. Comments are very much appreciated so let me know if I suck ;)**

Chapter 7

The blue was bright, Lyanna observed, and contrasted against the raw grey in her eyes. They gave her a youthful beauty, made her look pretty, maybe even delicate-a quality Lyanna abhorred. _They're only flowers_, she thought begrudgingly._ Flowers don't change anything_.

Her fingertips sifted through the crown and plucked a single blue rose. It had just begun to bloom, it's petals unfolding slightly. The blue was not yet ripe, making the young rose look like powdered snow. Lyanna held the tiny bud in the palm of her hand before crushing the petals between her fingers, inhaling the sweet scent it emitted.

"Just a stupid crown," she murmured, turning from her reflection, her white gown swirling about her ankles as she did so.

* * *

The great hall's hearths burned brightly, sending a glow across the feasting menagerie of lords and ladies. The night was young and vibrant, the guests filled with as much vim and vigor as their wine goblets would allow. The men drank heavily and boasted loudly while the women gossiped excitedly, their bosoms rapidly rising and falling with each new tale that dripped off their lips. Lyanna observed it all with a quiet relish, her mouth procuring a subtle smirk, her foot tapping along to the melody of music echoing through the hall.

Howland sat at her right elbow, enrapturing Benjen with a tale of the Neck, her little brother's eyes wide in adoration, while Brandon's seat was empty on her left. He had left sometime during the roasted applewood boar and she hadn't seen him since. _Probably drinking himself up properly for the last night_, Lyanna thought devilishly._ He's going to have the hardest time sitting himself on his horse upon the morrow_. They were riding to Riverrun the next day, a short trip to see Brandon's lovely Catelyn and the tenacious Lord Hoster Tully. She wondered how Brandon would react. Despite being betrothed for nearly five years, the two had only met once, many years ago when both were too young to see the point in marriage. They were to properly announce the marriage at Riverrun and Lyanna knew that Brandon was nervous. Marriage had seemed so far away, just a glimmer in the distant future, out of notice, but now it was starting to appear through the cracks and they found it wasn't so far away after all. For them both, Lyanna found.

Ned sat across from her, tentatively sipping his goblet and chewing on a haunch of pork while half listening to Robert Baratheon recount a daring hunting expedition to Ser Richard Lonmouth. His mind seemed to be somewhere else.

Lyanna had just placed her own goblet of wine down when a pair of arms swooped around her middle and hoisted her from the bench. She immediately began to struggle, clawing at the arms that held her. A familiar wild laugh erupted in her ear and Lyanna grunted. "Brandon, you dolt, _put me down_!" A smile was slowly broadening on her lips.

"Dearest sister, I believe it's time for a little dancing." His arms were locked tightly around her waist, and Lyanna gave a groan of dismay. "Wouldn't you agree, my lords?" He called to the surrounding tables, all of which gave rowdy uproars of approval. Untangling one arm, he swooped down on her goblet, taking a decent swig of wine.

Lyanna wriggled in his arms, but he was twice her size and she was only making it worse. He tightened his grip, his hands scrunching her dress as she fidgeted. The white silk shimmered against her skin and glinted in the firelight, the fabric sliding gently against her body, swaying with her movements. Lyanna's bust filled the dress to the brim and swelled angrily as she scrambled against Brandon's strength. "No, don't you-" he just tossed his head back and laughed loudly. She flushed with anger. "Brandon! Don't you dare-_Stop_!" Her growls of exasperation did nothing but provoke the guests more, their cries of drunken amusement sending her blood to a boil. Brandon's breath stunk sweetly of wine, his broad chest hardened with muscle. Lyanna's back arched and her hair swept across her blushing cheeks as she clenched her fingers around Brandon's forearm, but her exhaustive efforts did little. Shifting her weight in his arms, her elbow found his face. Brandon gave a cry of pain and dropped her. Benjen clapped his hands furiously, doubling over with giggles. Howland wore a bemused sort of expression, mingled with mirth; Ned even cracked a smile at the siblings' tomfoolery.

Brandon rubbed his cheek and snorted. "Dirty tricks, Lyanna. I learned that about you long ago. You never play fair."

Lyanna sauntered down the aisle out of Brandon's reach, the crown nestled in her hair bouncing with the movement. "I'd never win against you if I fought fair, brother. You're far too big," she paused, dress whispering against her calves. Picking up a goblet, she downed the contents and licked the red wine from her lips, smirking at Brandon. Giving him a taunting glare, she placed the goblet back down and stepped back. "But I'm faster."

Stepping out from the aisle, Lyanna joined the surge of dancing bodies, feet dragging against the stone floor leisurely. Brandon laughed before following after her. Lyanna took ahold of his calloused hands and laughed at the looks of bewilderment they invoked upon the other dancers. Gathering a fistful of her white gown, Lyanna shrieked as Brandon swung the two of them about the floor. Her mass of tangled dark hair swayed against her back and flew through the air, flourishing with the jovial bounds her feet took.

"You were always such an awful dancer, sister. I pity the men who have to put up with such an obscenity."

"Ah!" She shouted over the pounding of drums and twittering of flutes. "You dance like a drunken fool," she frowned, faux shock on her features. "Oh, my mistake!"

"You little-" But she just hooted with laughter. Lyanna's feet left the stone floor as Brandon threw her over his shoulder. Most of the dancers had stopped now, their eyes wide in bewilderment. Surely they had never seen such antics. The Starks siblings were many things but refined by Southern standards was not one of them. She threw her fists against his back, but she might as well have been a fly to Brandon.

"What brave soul is willing to take this she-wolf to dance?" Brandon shouted over the hall's merriment. The address earned an untamable swell of noise within Harrenhal's mighty feasting hall. Straightening in Brandon's arms, Lyanna blushed fervently under the eyes that devoured her.

"Brandon-"

The hall surged in outcry. Brandon turned away from the hall's guests, his laughter vibrating through his chest. "Well, well, what do we have here?" Lyanna's hair tickled her face as she twisted her neck around. "Who better, I ask, than the bravest knight in all of Westeros?" Her heart skipped a beat, for she thought Brandon meant Rhaegar. She was shamed by the thought a moment later when she saw Ser Arthur standing before them, a small, yet comfortable smile playing at his lips.

* * *

Rhaegar watched in a stunned fascination as Lyanna turned along with the rest of the hall to see who had claimed the dance. He was confused at first. That couldn't be right, there was some odd mistake.

Ser Arthur walked from his position on the wall to the vast opening in the hall. His gold cloak fluttered behind him and rustled when he came to a stop a few feet in front of Lyanna. He was smiling faintly, his dark hair illuminated against the firelight, and his hand was reflexively positioned at Dawn's hilt. Lyanna's smile was bright and Rhaegar felt a slick sense of anger trickle through his body like poison. Lyanna tilted her head and flourished an arm to him, her palm upturned, waiting for his hand. Ser Arthur stepped forward, tucking his gloved fingers around her waist while grabbing ahold of her outstretched hand. A pleasant tune vibrated all throughout the hall and the two began to dance.

Rhaegar didn't know what to make of it, nor the feeling of helpless misery pulsing through him. Perhaps it was because Arthur was his closest friend, or the way Lyanna smiled at him like he was someone she had known forever, but Rhaegar knew most of all it was because he would never be able to dance with her like Arthur could. He would never be able to take her pale hand in his and cradle her slender waist to the melody of a song. He would never breath in her scent, or feel her dark hair against his hands. He would never feel her smile, or touch her cheeks, caress her arms, feel the heat radiate from her skin. He was chained to his duty, bound to his wife, to his crown, his kingdom. The shackles hung impossibly heavy on his wrists, bitting into his skin and leaving rings of blood oozing down his fingers.

"She is beautiful," Elia mused quietly beside him. Rhaegar looked up in shock, broken from his reverie. His lady wife was dwarfed by the large chair she sat in, her pale face exhausted, yet there was life in her hazel eyes that had not yet gone out. She was draped in red and black cloth, just as Rhaegar, to represent House Targaryen. The layers of silk seemed to swallow her body, while the bold colors washed out her caramel skin, making her look bleak and weary. But still, her eyes glowed softly and stared at Lyanna with something like regard. Rhaegar's stomach wrenched uncomfortably as he stared at his wife.

"Elia. . ." he began softly, his voice barely a whisper. She smiled sadly, her gaze never wavering from the dance.

The Dornish princess eased her small hand into his and squeezed it reassuringly. "Rhaegar," she murmured, meeting his eyes for the first time. "Don't. _Please_." Her thumb ran along his knuckles, the pad of her finger like a secret against his skin. The music was fading away and Rhaegar looked back to Lyanna and Arthur, whom were bowing to one another, Lyanna's wild hair hanging about her waist. There was a lethargic pause that shivered through the hall before the shouts began again and a storm of contenders swarmed from the benches with hopes of a dance with the beautiful maid.

Rhaegar's eyes flittered to Elia and felt the heat of her hand leave him. She stood up, her chair scraping the floor as she did so. Her actions commanded the attention of the hall, a noisy silence sweeping along the tables. Elia smiled wearily and bent down to Rhaegar. Her fingers traced his cheeks faintly and she planted a small kiss on his forehead. He opened his mouth to speak, to say _something_-anything-but she hushed him, her breath against his face. "I have my part to play and so do you, Rhaegar. Remember that," she whispered. Sighing, she straightened up. Elia glanced about the hall and almost as an afterthought she whispered dolefully, "I'm tired, so very tired." Rhaegar wasn't sure if it was intended for him, but he presumed not, for Elia's eyes seemed clouded in thought. The princess's eyes swept over him slowly before she gathered her silks and departed the hall, her ladies in tow.

The warmth her presence gave abandoned him and Rhaegar felt cold. His eyes found Lyanna, the white gown flowing against her meandering curves, the silk shining in the light. Her eyes met his in the flurry and he was shrouded in ice.

* * *

Ser Oswell Whent had a firm hand and wasn't uncomely, yet he lacked the quick grace his brother of the kingsguard, Ser Arthur, possessed. Lyanna couldn't complain, not after a blustering fool from House Gaunt kept stepping on her toes and dragging his hand a little too low on her back. _Presumptuous ass_, Lyanna thought.

"You should know, my lady," Ser Oswell's eyes glinted. "My niece, Lady Alyce, has insisted I speak with you."

Lyanna shifted her body to the music, wisps of hair sweeping into her eyes. "Apologies, my lord, for your unfortunate circumstance. Having to dance with me instead of joining in on the night's frivolity must be a particularly displeasing form of torture."

"If I may be so bold, my lady, you _are_ the night's frivolity, and on the contrary: nothing would please me more than to twirl such a fine lady about the room while being the envy of everyone in this here hall."

"Very well, I will assume you've had too much wine to tell a lady from a pig, ser," Lyanna smirked.

"Ah, they seem to be one and the same, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask, ser," Lyanna replied with a false bravado. Ser Oswell chuckled, lifting his arm so she could spin beneath it. Lyanna's hair took to the air before settling once more about her shoulders as she spun to the music.

"Lady Alyce wished to know whether or not you would honor her in being an extended guest of Harrenhal. She has already proposed the matter to her father, the pompous Lord Whent," he smirked at the reference to his brother, pulling Lyanna in. "And he has given his consent."

_Stay at Harrenhal? Was she delusional?_ Lyanna wished to be very far away from the great castle, the promise of Winterfell was whispering in the back of her mind. She could almost taste the bitter cold winds and rose gardens, the memories of her childhood filling her with sweet longings.

"If you would be so kind as to relay my deepest apologies to the Lady Alyce, I would be most grateful, Ser Oswell. I have previous engagements to attend to, sadly, and it grieves me to decline her generous offer, but I find I must."

Ser Oswell nodded, sweeping into a gallant bow as the song came to its final dying notes. "As you wish, she will be most displeased, but I expect she will fully understand your reasonings." He stepped close momentarily, his lips at her ear. "She's quite awful, to be perfectly honest," he whispered. "Definitely more pig than lady." Lyanna choked on her laughter, and watched Ser Oswell with a fondness as he retreated to the edges of the hall, his golden cloak glimmering in the shadows.

* * *

After Elia left for bed, Rhaegar was alone at the high table. He nursed a single goblet of wine and leaned back in his chair with a dour expression, unconsciously gripping the wooden armrest in agitation. His part was the largest. What he did, what Rhaegar _chose_ to do, would effect not just him, but everyone, the whole entire kingdom. The thought was unnerving and set him on edge. The thought of so many lives resting on his shoulders, weighing him down, whispering in his ears, well, it was enough to drive anyone mad. _Even more so a Targaryen_, he thought bitterly. _The gods love their games, love to flip the coin and see where it lands_. Rhaegar still felt like his coin was flipping at times, twisting through the air, dancing on the border of sanity, spinning on the shadow of madness. It worried him much more than it should have. Rhaegar knew his mind, and he knew he wasn't mad, but there were times when the world seemed to hang in the balance of light and dark, and he was caught in the middle of it. His father's coin had been flipped long ago and the gods had played him mad. Aerys's madness woke him in the middle of the night, worried at the loose ends of his conscious, tugged at the frayed edges of his wilting mind. Some nights, Rhaegar thought his father would never find the ground again, believed the clouds had stolen him for good, never to place the Mad King back on the ground. But they always did, and Rhaegar suspected it was only a short matter of time before they claimed the king for good.

The prince took another sip of sweet wine. "Your Grace," a voice addressed to Rhaegar's left. Lord Whent stood tentatively beside a few abandoned chairs. He looked questioning at Rhaegar, whom nodded with a forced smile.

"Please sit, my lord. I am deprived of company, as you can see. I have driven everyone away it would seem," Lord Whent laughed appreciatively and placed his own goblet down on the high table, seating himself in Elia's old seat. The hall remained vastly occupied, but the noise had mostly died down, a steady hum surging throughout the guests. "I believe my thanks are in order. This is truly the greatest tourney in all of history." Lord Whent sat forward at the compliment, smiling delightedly.

"How very kind of you to say, Your Grace. It has been an absolute honor to host the tourney and to have such," his lips trembled, searching for the correct word, "esteemed company come and take part. We have been planning for the better part of a year, I admit, it has been quiet exhaustive as you might imagine," the lord nodded, his chins wobbling. "I hope the tourney has been pleasing to you, Your Grace. I congratulate you on your splendid win on the joust, very well met. I've never seen such a heated list of competitors, never! Never in all my years!" Rhaegar nodded absentmindedly, twirling the slender neck of his goblet between two fingers. The jewels inlaid in the crafted metal sparkled in the candlelight, winking at him.

"Your fondness for books has reached my ears, Your Grace." Lord Whent attempted conversation. "Harrenhal just so happens to have a very extensive library, oh yes. The castle is stocked with thousands of books, and countless scrolls, I believe, or so I've been told." Rhaegar stopped twirling the goblet and turned to look at the plump lord. "It's rumored there are scrolls not even the maesters of the Citadel have gotten their withering hands on. Ha! Imagine that! I wouldn't know the extent of the library, not being a diligent reader myself. I was always increasingly fond of more physical forms of entertainment, you know." He smiled at Rhaegar, whom was deep in his own reminiscing.

A thought winkled in the back of his mind, but just barely. It was an old thought, a thought he hadn't taken into question for a long time, not since he was a boy. It was foolish, a child's dream, and couldn't possibly hold any truth. It was folly, an old wives tale, nothing but wasted legend. Smoke and ash. He was so young when he had found that old scroll. . . a child with ambition to become a hero, a warrior. It meant nothing to him now. There was no promised prince.

But still, the glimmer of hope breathed life into the flames, and the fire that had burned so brightly in Rhaegar as a boy began to rekindle once more.

". . . Of course, I personally never won any, but I did have heart, oh yes, I was-"

"My lord," Rhaegar interrupted Lord Whent, "would it be a tremendous bother for me to take a look at this extraordinary library of yours? You've caught my attention and I'll admit, I'm curious."

* * *

Long auburn hair hung in silky tresses down her back, the locks falling in loose waves after she had braided it the night before. Her dress was a deep blue and rustled against the floor when she moved. She looked a lady, she was certain, but could she be a lady that day? Her fingers trembled and she smoothed down her gown for the hundredth time.

She had been preparing all her life to be a lady, and a dutiful one at that, but nothing could have prepared Catelyn Tully for today. Her stomach wrenched and she felt ill, grappling with the bannister to keep herself steady.

Everything would be fine, she had nothing to worry about.

But still, Cat blinked her green Tully eyes and prayed to the Seven that he would approve of her. Perhaps even _like _her. She knew marriage wasn't made of love, only duty and honor and a few sweet words, but there was a small part of her, a young and naive part, that hoped for love and to be loved in return. Perhaps Brandon might grow to love her, perhaps with time.

_The big wolf_, she thought dazed, _and I am to be his lady. The Lady of Winterfell_.

The mere title gave her shivers and sent her heart pumping faster. She could be a lady, she knew she could. If only he could lead her way, show her, teach her. She felt so lost. She'd never been to Winterfell before. Heard about it in her schooling, of course, but the castle of ice and stone was still a mystery to her. Riverrun was her home, her birthplace, it would feel so odd to leave it behind her.

"My sweet Cat, you look lovely." Lord Hoster Tully stood at the bottom of the stairs peering up at her with twinkling eyes. His hair was peppered and his beard was trimmed short, making him look younger than his years. Dressed in the Tully colors of blue and red he looked dashing. She gave him an uneasy smile, but it was forced.

He strode up the stairs, the sword at his side brushing his thigh and clanking against his belt. "What's the matter, Cat? You're not nervous about today are you?" His mustache twitched as his lips gave her a crooked smile.

"What if-" Her voice caught in her chest and Catelyn felt like a child. "What if he doesn't like me?" She avoided her father's eyes, and instead chose to stare at the stone beneath her fingers.

"My child, how could he not like you?" Cat made no reply and a few moments passed before she felt her father's hands on her arms. He turned her around so she was facing him. Although several feet taller than his child, Hoster Tully stared at his most beloved daughter with the same blue-green eyes she possessed. The smile had disappeared from his lined face and he looked intent. "If Brandon Stark doesn't love you by the end of the night then I am a pickled fish. Do I look like a pickled fish, lovely Cat?" She cracked a smile and shook her head, her auburn hair swaying to and fro down her back. He gave a rumbling chuckle and cupped Cat's cheek. "Oh, my sweet Cat. How have you grown so old? You were my little babe, so tiny in my arms and now look at you! It will be hard to let you go, but you must swim your own path soon."

Catelyn would miss her family very much. She would miss her sister Lysa, her brother Edmure, and her uncle, but her father she would miss most of all.

_And Peytr, too. _

It was going to be terribly hard on him, he hadn't been told about the betrothal yet and Cat knew it would come as a shock to him. He did love her too much. A sweet child's love she couldn't return. Perhaps it had been terrible of her to play along, but she was only having fun. She never realized how deeply Peytr. . . . Cat sent another silent pray to the Seven. She heard loud footsteps on the stairs.

"I saw them! They're here! Cat! I saw them, they're at the gates! He's really here!" Edmure tore up the stairs with an excited, eager expression on his young face. He was nearly ten years, yet everything still excited him.

"Where's Lysa?" Cat asked urgently, realizing how much she wanted her sister just then. She wanted to hold her hand and squeeze it tight when the nerves became too horrible to fight off alone.

"I'm here," Cat turned and smiled fleetingly at her younger sister. She expelled a small breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Are you nervous?" Lysa whispered in her ear. The guards were taking their positions the the bottom of the entrance, preparing to open the large doors. Catelyn took her sister's hand in hers and took a breath.

"Of course not," she lied. Lysa smiled at her, and Cat stared straight forward. Her father had taken his position on the stairs and Edmure beside him. But where was Peyter. . .?

It took Cat a moment to register his absence but then she came to her senses. He was too lowborn, he wasn't a Tully, only a ward from the Fingers. Her father wouldn't have him welcoming the Starks beside them. How could she be so foolish as to think. . . .

The large doors of slowly pulled up open, and four figures stood silhouetted in the entrance hall. They were flanked by guards and stepped into the hall. The doors began to close again.

"That's him, Cat! Look!" Lysa giggled, and bounced slightly. Cat did indeed look. It was obvious which of the four was Brandon Stark. He was very large, and-Cat held back a relived gasp-very comely. She had heard rumors, heard he was handsome, but Catelyn hadn't allowed herself to believe the chatter. She had to see the heir of Winterfell herself.

Now that she had seen her betrothed, Cat found it hard to look away. He possessed an energy about him, as if you couldn't help but stare. He was smiling broadly and his dark hair fell into his eyes and his cheeks were rough with dark stubble. He wore a fur trimmed black cloak, pinned with a direwolf clasp. He carried a greatsword and had the necessary strength to wield it, his body thick with muscle underneath layers of leather. Cat allowed herself a tiny smile, and raised her chin slightly higher into the air.

"Welcome!" Her father's voice carried strong throughout the hall. "House Stark is most welcomed here at Riverrun, and we are proud and honored to have you with us."

Brandon spoke, still wearing his smile. "We thank you for having us, my lord. It will be an absolute joy to finally sit and drink with you. I find it's been far too long since the Starks have given a proper toast to your good heath." Hoster Tully gave a chuckle in response.

Her father had made his way down the stair and stood opposite the Starks. Brandon swept into a bow, and his brothers fell in suit. It was only then, when her graceful curtsey gave her away, did Catelyn realize there was a girl there as well. She stood slightly behind Brandon, mirroring her other brother, Eddard, whom stood flanking Brandon's right. The girl whispered something to Brandon and he gave a bout of laughter. Catelyn's stomach squirmed. "Who's that?" Lysa breathed. _Who indeed_, Cat didn't know either.

"May I present the rest of my family," her father stretched an arm to the stair and the siblings began to walk down. "My son and heir, Edmure, my youngest daughter Lysa," Lysa walked down the stone stair with a youthful grace, her braids bouncing heavily down her back as she did so. "And my eldest daughter Catelyn."

Cat felt her cheeks color as she walked down the stair. _Please let him like me, oh please let him_. She didn't think she could bare to have him dislike her. She needed him to approve. She lifted her eyes and found him staring at her. Catelyn felt her face flush with heat under his gaze and she smiled. She took her place beside Lysa and bowed to the Starks.

"Allow me to present mine, my lord." His smile had increased somewhat, alighting his face. "This is my brother Eddard, and my youngest brother Benjen," a lanky boy appear beside the girl, and she took him under her arm, fluffing his hair, causing Benjen to scowl. "And this is Lyanna, my wretched sister."

Lyanna bowed her head to them, and smirked at Brandon, "He loves me so much, can you tell?"

Her eyes met Cat's and her smile was kind. Cat hadn't known Lyanna was coming, but she must have accompanied her brothers to the Tourney of Harrenhal. She was similar to Brandon. They had the same large grey eyes, and stood with a force and certain energy that drew attention. Cat had heard things about Lyanna Stark as well. She returned the girl's smile and felt almost relaxed.

"Please, make yourselves at home, we have prepared everything for your stay." Lord Hoster turned and Lysa and and Edmure began to follow. Cat caught Brandon's eye and felt her fingers tingle. Bowing her head, she glance at Lyanna. The Stark girl winked at her and a warm pleasant feeling swelled in her gut. She turned and began to follow Lysa, keeping her eyes trained on her sister's back careful to make her stride steady and graceful.

"So will I grow fins?" Cat nearly jumped out of her skin when Lyanna strode up beside her.

"Pardon?" Cat asked nervously.

"If I swim in the river?" She raised her dark brows in inquiry. "I heard that from a stable boy once. He told me that if you swim in the river at Riverrun under a quarter moon that you'll grow fins," the Stark girl was grinning at her, obviously not perceptive to Catelyn's discomfort.

"Lay off it, Lyanna," she heard Brandon snort. "Don't be such a bother. Be a lady," Cat glanced over her shoulder at him. He was smiling as well.

"I'm only curious, and Benjen wanted to know, but he's too craven to ask."

"No, I'm not!" He pipped up from behind his brothers.

"Yes, you are, Ben. Don't try and hide the fact that you're a little ninny."

"Am not!"

"Right. If you're not a ninny then I'm a speckled newt," Lyanna called.

"Ribbit, ribbit!" Brandon mimicked.

"That's a toad, you fool. Gods, why do I even bother with these people?" Lyanna questioned, her hands raking absentmindedly through her long dark hair.

Catelyn was conflicted. She wanted to laugh but was restraining herself. It wouldn't be proper, not lady-like at all. She glanced at Lyanna. The younger girl loped down the hall with an easy gait, her shoulders back and her legs consuming the distance of the hall in long, confident strides. She certainly didn't care about being ladylike, but it obviously didn't matter to her in the slightest. "No," Catelyn said after awhile.

Lyanna pursed her lips, "Pity," she shrugged and kept on walking.

**A/N: VOILA, MES AMIES! J'adore tes comments (?) idk I'm terrible with french no wonder I almost failed. **

**Please pop in a review if you feel a sudden urge to be wonderful. I'll be waiting like a sad little puppy to see if you leave anything! Hope you enjoyed it, sorry if my Cat was a little off, I'm not sure how that played out to you since her character is big in the series! **

**Anyways, let me know what you thought, if it sucked major ass or y'know if you thought it was barely tolerable, anything. **

**Don't worry, loves! Rhaegar and Lyanna see more of each other soon! And we are gonna have some Brandon/Littlefucker drama in the next chapter, I assure you. **

**And I'd love to give a special thanks to ANITA (shadow2001), who's been practically my fairy-godmother throughout this whole writing shebang, and helped so much so she deserves lots of love! **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: So sorry it took so long! I've been traveling in Washington and Oregon looking at colleges and wasn't able to write this next chapter, but I hope the wait is worth it! :)**

Chapter 8

_. . . If the comet intercepts the stars Arcles and Draethus, it may signify a great summer storm under the fullest moon. The occurrence of the comet has only been spotted once in history. . ._

Raking his fingers through his hair, Rhaegar sighed wearily. He had been searching for hours in the great library of Harrenhal and had found nothing of significance, much to his dismay. He didn't understand why he felt so disappointed. There was nothing to find and there never had been. Rhaeagr was just running like a child around in circles, trying hopelessly to catch his own shadow. After all his exhaustive efforts, the hunt for old ghosts seemed to meet a dead end, and one Rhaegar was familiar with. He had met the same dead end numerous times and never seemed to learn from his mistakes. There was no promised prince, it was only a ridiculous story. There was no truth in it.

Rubbing his strained eyes, Rhaegar flipped the large book shut with unnecessary force, causing settled dust to circulate the air. He emptied the rest of his wine goblet in one swallow, the heat of the sweet drink burning his throat.

He would search no further tonight, the prince decided. His eyes were losing their focus and his fingertips were numb from the ceaseless turning of pages. The candle he had brought with him to search through the library was nearly melted down to its last dying licks of life, and a puddle of wax had begun pooling on the leaflets of paper covering the table's surface.

The prince let out a sigh of irritability and rested his forehead upon his arms. He shut his eyes and succumbed to the blackness beneath his eyelids.

* * *

"That's it, Ben! _That's it_! Harder! Don't let him rush you like that, you have to even your stance, gain proper balance-no, no, here-" Lyanna ignored her brother's blushing face and ripped the sword from his grasp. Edmure Tully faced her with look of awe in his blue eyes and the two boys watched her movements eagerly, hungry to learn.

Lyanna held the sword strongly in her right hand, and wrestled with her dress. She spread her legs and rocked on the balls of her feet. "See, you have to move with your opponent, match their steps." Sifting her feet against the courtyard's stone floor, Lyanna mirrored Edmure's movements. Her body faced sideways, a tactic she developed when she was younger. Being smaller than most of her opponents, Lyanna found it beneficial to position herself side faced so she could move more swiftly. Her quick and sure-footedness had made it extremely hard for her attackers to best her with a sword.

Clashing her blade lightly against the Tully boy's, Lyanna smiled, "Look at you, Edmure. Quite the natural." The boy flushed a fierce red and averted his eyes. "Ouch!" He cried when Lyanna's sword point pinched into his shoulder.

"Never," she commanded, "Take your eyes off your opponent. It's a sure way to get yourself killed." Edmure nodded, blushing with shame.

Lyanna watched them for a few more moments, correcting their posture or sword grip, but her focus was broken by noise that flared up from inside Riverrun. Voices poured from the hall.

"Peytr, don't be foolish, you'll get yourself killed!" A panic stricken voice cried. Lyanna found her feet moving across the courtyard, fingers still grasping the blade, rushing to the source of the disturbance. "Stop! This is madness. You can't possibly- it's absolutely-"

Catelyn Tully's eyes were wide with worry when Lyanna entered the hall. Her auburn hair hung around her shoulders in a state of dishevelment and the older girl looked about to cry. "What's going on here?" Lyanna inquired with a voice made of ice. "Catelyn, are you alright?"

The eldest Tully shook her head helplessly and twisted her mouth into a uncomfortable line. Lyanna went to her side, anger stirring in her gut. Cat was going to be her sister soon and Lyanna had already taken a liking to the pretty maid. Yes, she was very proper and almost boringly so, but Lyanna was convinced she had another layer underneath her combed hair and creamy skin.

Catelyn stood opposite a boy, perhaps four and ten, five at the most. His face was burning with rage, his pale complexion heating feverishly. Lyanna didn't recognize him. He surely wasn't a Tully, that much was obvious. His hair was dark and his build slight, and his grey-green eyes glinted in the afternoon light. "Petyr" she had called him. The boy didn't pay Lyanna any mind, all his attention absorbed by Catelyn.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He snarled. "When were you going to tell me? Or were you planning on not saying anything? Thought you'd save yourself the embarrassment and wait for someone else to tell me?" His smile was bitter, "How very kind of you, Cat." He stepped forward, and Lyanna immediately moved in front of Cat, her lip curling dangerously.

"Watch yourself, boy," she hissed, fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword. He finally removed his gaze from Catelyn and stared at Lyanna with a newfound anger.

"You must be his sister, how charming you Starks are. Forgive me, I've forgotten my courtesies." Whatever courtesies those were, he didn't bother to remember them for Lyanna's sake. "Cat, you can't go through with this. How could you want to? Why would you want to, Cat? The Starks are-"

"Lyanna? Catelyn? What's all this noise about?" Brandon strode into the hall, a confused, yet partially amused look on his face.

"Nothing, my lord." Catelyn quickly spoke. "Petyr was just inquiring about the betrothal, that's all."

Petyr seemed to freeze when he saw Brandon. His anger swelled and his scowled, clenching his fists at his sides. It was almost pitiful to Lyanna. Brandon stood over six feet tall, a giant compared to the Petyr boy, whose size was closer to Benjen's.

"You're Brandon Stark?" Brandon's eyebrows rose and he slowly stepped forward, a smile growing on his face.

"Well, that's what my father tells me, but one cannot be entirely sure of one's parentage. Speaking of parentage, who do you happen to be?" Brandon stepped closer, closing the distance between the boy and himself. His hand rested against his belt, fingers dancing along the hilt of his sword. Brandon loved a fight more than any other, perhaps that's why Lyanna enjoyed him so much. He always wanted to practice with her, make her better, train her. Eddard would fight with her to an extent, but was always weary of their father's disapproval. Lord Rickard thought Lyanna looked much better being a lady then rolling amuck in the mud. Brandon wasn't afraid of father; he wasn't afraid of anything. The eldest Stark brother had what their father called "wolf's blood" and often said Lyanna claimed a bit of the blood herself.

"My parentage doesn't matter." Petyr grew redder still, fists trembling. The state of the boy seemed to amuse Brandon further, and he smirked down at him.

"So, what is it that matters to you, exactly?" Petyr's eyes flickered to Catelyn briefly, but Brandon caught it. Realization seemed to sink into her brother. "Ah," he pursed his lips in thought, yet the smirk still curled his lips. "That's quiet unfortunate, boy, seeing as I'm going to wed Lady Catelyn."

Catelyn and Petyr both flushed. Catelyn stayed silent, her humiliation too much to bare, her blue eyes permanently downcast, fixated on the ground. "You can't." Petyr growled. "I won't let you marry him!" He shouted, his voice echoing throughout the hall.

"Let me?" Brandon snorted. "I wasn't aware I needed a child's consent to marry."

"You don't." Catelyn's voice trembled as she grappled to gain her composure. "Please, my lord, let's forget this ordeal, it isn't worth your time."

Catelyn turned with every intention of leaving Riverrun's hall with her betrothed beside her but was brought to a halt by Petyr's voice. "I challenge you for her hand, Stark!"

_Stupid, insolent boy,_ Lyanna thought, her eyebrows knitting themselves together._ Brandon will strike you down and skewer you through the heart before you have time to draw your blade._

"No, Petyr. Don't do this!" Catelyn pleaded in a tense voice. Brandon let out a bark of laughter.

"You want to fight me, boy?" Brandon chuckled, running a callused hand through his dark hair. "Let's fight. Sister, fetch the child a blade, though I don't see how he'll manage it. Ever used a sword, boy?" He taunted. "Ever fought?"

Petyr made no answer, but stared at Brandon with the deepest loathing. "Here," Lyanna called, tossing the blade she carried. "Brandon," she started with a sigh. This wasn't going to end well, Lyanna knew.

"Don't hold out on me now, lovely Lyanna. I might have need of you after our battle, the boy looks fearsome. If I should fall," he spoke with false dread. "Tell father that I hid all the summer wine under Maester Luwin's bed." Wrapping a comforting hand around her arm, Lyanna gave the Tully girl a faint smile and squeezed her arm. The girl made no response. Her expression was pained, the corners of her mouth taut and worried.

Brandon unsheathed his greatsword with grace, the muscles in his arm rippling with strength. "I wonder if your blood is as green as you are, little lord. I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

* * *

Catelyn felt the wolf girl's fingers graze her arm as she darted past. "No! No, please! STOP!" She screamed.

Petyr's body was sprawled along the stairs, his sword abandoned a few steps below. Blood flowed freely down his face and he looked about to faint_. So much blood_, she thought. A trail had been smeared across the floor from where he had dragged his body across the stone. Petyr had never been one for swordplay, preferring the company of books instead. _All those days reading, they mock him now_.

"Please, my lord." She pleaded, her breath coming in a short panicked rhythm, the corset sewed across her waist making each precious gulp of air a knife in her side. She slide in between Petyr and Brandon's blade. "Please, my love, let him live," tears boiling in her eyes and shame bloomed red across her cheeks. "I beg you, as your betrothed, let the boy go." Her body trembled before him, the weight of it too heavy upon her knees. Her voice choked in her throat, the tears becoming uncontrollable as they ran hot down her face. "He m-means naught to me, but as a ward of my father. . . ." The sword immediately lowered, but the anger and battle in Brandon Stark's eyes had not yet vanished. The fight had not lasted a mere minute before Brandon had run Petyr to the ground, a weeping gash to his thigh and a slash to his collarbone. The boy's hands were sticky with blood as he clutched his leg.

"As you wish, my love." Brandon stared at her a moment more, the grey of his eyes burning with bloodlust. "Lyanna," he called. "Assist Lady Catelyn in whatever she may need, make sure she is well. I must confront Lord Hoster of this nuisance."

"Cat," a small voice moaned. A wet hand clutched her fingers, but she wrenched her arm away with great haste, flinching at Petyr's touch. She wiped her tears away and rested her hand against her heart, shocked to feel its violent hammering.

"Lyanna," she addressed softly. "Would you please find Edmure and retrieve the maester? Young Baelish will need to have his hurts attended to. Pray excuse me, I feel a bit. . . faint."

With those final words, Cat swept from the hall. The coating of Petyr's blood against her skin felt sticky between her fingers.

* * *

"I cannot express my grief enough, my lord. I have been shamed into oblivion by this disaster, I pray you consider my deepest apologies, even if they are worthless to you. That damned boy-so foolish." Lord Hoster had been cursing "that damned boy" all evening, murmuring his apologies under his breath like a prayer. Brandon had explained the circumstances to the Lord of Riverrun that afternoon and matters had been taken into Lord Tully's hands. He was absolutely furious at first. It took Brandon a great deal to calm him down. A maester had been sent to tend to Petyr Baelish, the Tullys' ward, and he was locked away in his chambers as punishment. Catelyn had not been seen since she left the hall that day, her seat at the table filling with candlelight, a pit of empty cushion. Lysa Tully had not spoken a word to anyone, but her sniffling could be heard from everyone at the table. A steady stream of tears leaked from her eyes and she stared at her plate, eating little.

"All men are foolish at such a young age, my lord. Please, don't grieve over the matter any further, I implore you." Brandon said tiredly. Lord Hoster nodded, sipping his wine solemnly.

"I'll have to send him away, back to the Fingers. He's caused such trouble." Lysa gave a squeak of shock and began to cry harder. For a girl her age, Lyanna thought Lysa Tully rather flimsy. "Lysa if you cannot control yourself, please leave us." The girl paled but got to her feet and slipped from the room, her auburn braids swinging along her back.

"We would be more than happy to accompany the boy as far as Darry, my lord." Eddard started. "It shouldn't be much trouble. We have plenty of guards who can be of assistance. I'm sure Lord Arryn wouldn't mind sending a few men to escort Baelish through the Vale. I can send a raven if you'd like."

"That seems as good of a proposition as any other. The sooner that boy is gone, the better I will sleep."

* * *

"Rhaegar, you can't keep doing this to yourself." Arthur Dayne found him asleep in library for the third time that week. Rhaegar shook the sleep from his eyes, rubbing dust from his face.

"You're mistaken, my friend," the prince replied. "I may do whatever I please." The words fell from his lips a little too harshly and the prince immediately felt guilty. Arthur was his closest friend and shouldn't be blamed for Rhaegar's misfortunes. But Rhaegar didn't know if it was his scroll hunting that brought on the bitterness, or if it was something entirely different. As of late, whenever he looked at the knight all he could see was him smiling that kind smile of his as he twirled Lyanna Stark about the dance floor.

"Which is what, exactly?" He lifted a taunting brows and lifted the cover of a crumbling copy of ancient Valyrian hymns. Rhaegar just shook his head in exhaustion. He had read that tattered book for an hour trying to see if he could find anything about the prophecy, but he had only found songs of shepherds and sleep herding. "This is madness, Rhaegar. You can't give yourself up to this crazy chase of yours again. I know what you're trying to find and no good will come of it." He hurried on before Rhaegar could interrupt. "Now, I won't ask questions. I always let you be, but as your friend, I insist you clear your head. This can't be good for you."

"Oh, yes. Because reading is a common cause of death in the kingdoms." He murmured, rubbing his fingers along his jaw.

"Come out for a ride with me. Argoy Whent wants to lead a hunt; leave the castle for a few days. All these books and _enrapturing_ scrolls will be here when you return." He placed a hand upon Rhaegar's shoulder, the gold cloak brushing his forearm. "Please, Rhaegar. You'll feel better."

Feeling like a weeping child being tempted with a shiny toy, Rhaegar gave a reluctant nod.

* * *

The black destrier Lyanna mounted gave a shake of its head and swooshed its tale. The warmth of its body seeped into her trousers and Lyanna shaped her legs against the contours of its large middle. Lyanna tossed her thick braid over her shoulder and rolled her neck in preparation for the long ride to Winterfell. Gods, it would be good to finally go home. They had been away for over a fortnight and Lyanna craved to feel the cold winds and longed for rides in the shaded Godswood of her youth.

"What in seven hells are you wearing, you wretch?"

"Did you honestly think I would wear a bloody _dress_, Brandon?" She scoffed. "Do you know how difficult riding in those repulsive things are?"

"Actually yes, I do. What a wonderful thing wine is, dear sister." Ned pulled his horse up beside the two of them only to shoot a quizzical look at Lyanna; she merely shrugged. "Although, it pains me to say I don't look as lovely as you do in silk, wench." Brandon peered over at Ned, grinning. "Or Ashara Dayne for that matter. What do you think, Ned?" Her brother blushed deeply and turned his face away.

"Are you ready to depart, my lord?" A Tully guard asked Brandon.

"Might as well get on with it," he replied with a sigh.

There were about twenty Tully guards accompanying their small party along with thirty men from Winterfell. So, in a flurry of grey wolves and blue and red trout the Starks began to ride the long River Rode with heavy hopes of home.

* * *

"We are surely lost." Arthur cursed and yanked his horse around, searching through the trees. "I haven't got the slightest inkling of where we are. Oh Gods, I'm going to be hanged for this."

Rhaegar bit his lip. He knew exactly where they were but was debating confessing his knowledge to Arthur. The hunt had taken the group north and they were heading in the direction of Darry castle. After a day of riding with Argoy Whent's rambunctious hunting party, Rhaegar found the quiet of the woods soothing and was disinclined to go ahead just yet.

"Come, Arthur. We'll make camp up ahead and carry on the search at first light, there's no use looking any further tonight. They probably went up north, perhaps they're lodging at Darry tonight. That's where we'll ride tomorrow." The two proceeded onward through the thinning trees to find a decent clearing in the brush to sleep.

* * *

The sun was hanging low in the sky, and their whole group was nearly fainting from exhaustion. Lyanna herself felt the wearisome effects of a days ride. Her bottom was terribly sore and the muscles in her legs were stiff and cramping. Lyanna looked up in surprise.

A large party of men riding great destriers appeared at the top of the hill resting behind them.

"Who goes there!" Lyanna heard one shout.

"Brandon Stark, my lords, with a small party from Riverrun. And what of you?"

"Argoy Whent, my lord. I've gathered a hunting party, we've come from Harrenhal. Been riding a hunt trail for a day and a half, but we plan on riding back on the morrow."

"We're riding from Riverrun and are making our way back home to Winterfell," Brandon shouted in reply.

They gathered their horses and supplies with haste, and met Whent's party on the hilltop.

"You must be Lady Lyanna," Argoy greeted happily. Lyanna smiled politely and nodded. Argoy turned to Brandon, his peppered beard blowing in the breeze. "Our party is taking advantage of Lord Darry's hospitality for a night. You are sure to be welcomed as well, Stark." Darry castle wasn't very far, perched at the crossing of River Road and the Kingsroad. They would be there within the next hour.

"A nice bed and warm wine would be welcomed. What say you, Ned?" Eddard nodded in agreement. "Consider it settled, my lord."

"Good. Say, you haven't seen the prince cross through these parts, by chance?"

"Rhaegar?" Lyanna blurted in confusion.

"Yes, my lady. He and Ser Arthur Dayne were accompanying us on our hunt, but went separate trails and well. . . . They haven't turned up since this afternoon."

_How odd._

"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much. The two are highly capable fighters and if Ser Arthur's with him, nothing ought to happen to Rhaegar." One of Argoy's companions piped. Lyanna wasn't so sure.

* * *

The following morning was swelling with heat as the sun rose higher in the sky and the peaceful hour was disturbed by the commotion taking place outside in Darry's training yard.

"COME ON, LY! KNOCK HIS TEETH IN!"

"Will you shut up!" Lyanna barked to her brother in a bout of anger. The three Stark brothers were perched nicely on an old tree stump, watching the quarrel before them. Brandon, munching on a sweet apple, observed the fight with enthusiasm, his eyes avidly locked on the spectacle. Benjen looked almost confused, but excited nonetheless, and Eddard sat with a look of mild disapproval on his face, but couldn't bring himself to look away.

"You shouldn't let her do this, Brandon. You know what father would say-"

"Father's not here, is he? And do you honestly think I'd be able to stop Lyanna from doing _anything_? You know how she is." Ned grunted in response, perhaps agreement. Lyanna would do as she pleased, that much was known by the Starks.

Lyanna stood at the center of a muddy field just outside Darry, her trousers covered in grass stains, face flushed and smiling with abandon. She faced a Tully man, he too sharing the careless appearance of mud splattered attire. Lyanna's leather vest hung tight on her body, having borrowed it from Ben, and her light grey tunic blossomed from underneath the vest and hung unrestrained on her arms. The braid she had made this morning was beginning to loose its grip and strands of black hair began to plaster themselves to her moist face.

Already dispensing one of Winterfell's Northmen after much effort, Lyanna took up the young Tully guard as her next opponent. The men would have completely ignored her pleas to fight unless Brandon suggested a prize to the lot. His suggestion piqued their interests tenfold and many couldn't resist joining in on the frivolity. A kiss would be offered to the man who could defeat the Lady of Winterfell. Now, Brandon never specified what kind of kiss, but Lyanna let them think what they liked. Though many valiant efforts were given, no one had managed to bring the lovely maiden down. Her skills in sword fighting weren't legendary, but her tactics caused her opponents to fail miserably, she also had agility on her side. Lyanna's thinner frame soon became a hindrance to the men who tried to use their might against her and ended up sorely winded and liable for defeat.

"The problem with you Southerners," she growled, her back foot sliding through the soft earth. "Is that you pay too much attention-" the boy grunted as she advanced, her blade screeching against his own. "-To fancy footwork and never watch for anything _else_!" With that last word, Lyanna quickly sidestepped the blow and let his sword plunge forward. The boy slipped. Lyanna's fist flew into his stomach and the guard fell to his knees in the squishy mud.

Brandon's roaring laughter could be heard from a mile away. Wiping dirt and hair from her face, Lyanna let herself give in to her quivering muscles, bending over to rest upon her knees a moment. Lyanna could taste salt on her lips as a cut on her cheek leaked a thin trail of blood down her face, dripping a rather large stain on her tunic.

After regaining her breath, Lyanna reached out a hand to the young guard. The red and blue fish embroidered on his doublet with covered in bits of grass and smeared with dirt. "Don't worry," she breathed heavily, managing a wink. "It took me forever to learn that trick. Brandon must have knocked me on my arse ten and five times before I finally fed him his own medicine."

The boy blushed and she gave him a hard clap on the back. "Which one of you ninnies is next? I have one more go in me for anyone stupid enough to cross blades with an angry wench covered in shit." Her father's Northmen had been immune Lyanna's foul language and had accepted it long ago during practice in the training yard, but the Tully men were not so quick. They knew of ladies in dresses with manners as high and nobel as the sky, not mud drenched girls barking at them with a weapon in her fist.

Snorting, Lyanna waited for a volunteer, but none came forward. The men were gazing up in shock, but all dropped to one knees as if on command. She soon saw why.

Tilting her head with a grin burning upon her face, "Your Grace," she murmured into her chest. Lyanna wondered how Rhaegar Targaryen saw her. Bloody, and bruised, and covered in muck. Warm blood rolled down her neck lethargically as a reminder of her current uncomposed state of dress. "Ser Arthur," she nodded to the golden knight. "Your party will be so happy to hear of your return."

**A/N: To those of you who are waiting so patiently for some L/R fluff, the wait will soon come to an end! YAY! Next chapter should be. . . exciting.**

**Pop in a review if you'd be so kind! Same rules apply: anything goes. I love reading what you all have to say and are SO appreciative of those of you who take the time to write in your thoughts!**

**Love ya! ~Adderley **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Everything, including my bullshit excuses will be at the end. Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Chapter 9

"Who gave you such a thick chunk of steel, my lady? Whoever it was needs a flogging." Ser Arthur teased. Lyanna's sword was slung lazily over one shoulder, gripped loosely by her right hand. She could feel rivers of sweat roll sluggishly down her spine and although it was still early morning, the sun's heat was overwhelming. _Curse this summer sun._

"Why don't you get off your horse, Ser Arthur, and then we'll see who needs a flogging." Lyanna grinned, boots sinking further into the mud. She swung the sword down from her shoulder and turned around, making her way steadily across the field up to the castle. "You lot can get up now," Lyanna barked at the men still kneeling. "You'll be of no use to anyone with your noses in the mud."

The steady tromping of the horse's hooves behind her let Lyanna know Rhaegar and Arthur were following. Her brothers had gotten off the tree stump and bowed their heads to the prince dutifully as he passed. Lyanna snatched the half eaten apple from Brandon's limp grasp, biting into the succulent fruit, juice dribbling down her chin. Darry castle loomed up stout and sturdy before them, its stones weatherbeaten and worn from all its years standing. It was not as mighty as Winterfell nor as impregnable as the Eryie, but Darry had never been brought down, and for that, Lyanna respected the small castle. You needn't be monstrous to withstand the world and all its horrors, only smart.

"Argoy Whent nearly drowned himself in wine last night, he was so worried," Lyanna shouted over her shoulder as they came closer to the front gates. A stable boy spotted them and ran off. The group came to a halt and waited for the rest of the castle to be notified of their arrival. "What exactly took his royal highness so far off course?" She directed the question at Arthur with an arch of her brow. Her voice was drawling, casual, with just enough affected concern to be polite. She had perfected this manner of speech with her father and Maester Luwin. They both nagged her on her courtesies as a proper lady, insisting she remember her decorum during her sessions. Luwin has given up when she was seven, but kept up the observance for the sake of ceremony. Lord Rickard was not so shaken, and adamantly exhorted Lyanna to assume the ladylike formalities she was expected to endow gracefully.

The sunlight backlit the two riders, forcing Lyanna to squint up at them. "Call it spontaneity, if you'd like, although, I prefer torture. I was lost, not even the Seven could point me in the right direction," Arthur slide a glance at his close friend. "Although, I believe Rhaegar knew where we were the entire time. The amount of pain the prince causes my heart is astounding."

"It is a talent hurting hearts," Lyanna tilted her head to evade the sun. She stepped forward and into the shadow of Rhaegar's horse. The black beast sniffed at her, breathing heavily, its nostrils flaring. Lyanna cupped her palm around the juicy red apple, fingering the fruit behind her back. "How many hearts have you skewered, Your Grace? It must be quiet a number. I could never compete. Stable boys and rancid guards is all I tempt." She blinked up through the light at the silver hued dragon prince, with his even shoulders and formidable frame and strong featured face. The otherworldly traits of the Targaryens was impossible to ignore. Oh, yes. The prince has broken many hearts, most by mere glances, she guessed. Lyanna wondered if he had broken Elia's. It was a strange thought. Elia of Dorne was his lady wife, a sweet and elegant thing. The two had all the happinesses Westeros could present, it seemed. But everyone had their shadows and the Iron Throne cast innumerable shadows upon the family who possessed it.

"Lying to a member of the royal family is a heinous crime, Lady Lyanna," Ser Arthur quipped from atop his white warhorse. "You have ruined countless hearts, I'm sure of it."

"Lies!" Lyanna snickered. "Lying to a lady is bad luck, Ser Arthur Dayne," Lyanna teased with a twist of her lips, planting the tip of her sword into the ground. "But lie to a wolf," she shook her head, eyebrows rising with a look of reproach. "We travel in packs, did you know? Little Benjen has a nasty punch, I'll warn you."

Lyanna presented the apple to the great black horse who hungrily devoured it within a matter of seconds. It nuzzled her fingers for more, but whined softly upon discovering there was nothing more. Lyanna shushed the beast, running her hand against its long jaw. Her fingers scratched behind its large ears and Lyanna smiled when the horse leaned into her arm, snorting appreciatively.

The sound of gates opening and a cacophony of voices announced the lords arrival. Argoy Whent's bold voice echoed across the yard, "Your Grace, ah! Thank the gods!" Lyanna sighed and took Whent's arrival as her queue to depart. She gripped the hilt of her sword firmly before slipping between Ser Arthur and Rhaegar's horses and settling herself into the mass of guards that had accompanied her and her brothers onto the field earlier that morning.

* * *

"So, you're telling me that if the Grumpkin King of the Warring Waters battled Angus Great Skins, Angus would win? That's pathetic, Ly. Old Nan said the Grumpkin King could smash in a man's skull with one hand while ripping off his leg with the other-"

"But Angus had bears and shadowcats, Ben, be logical. And besides, the Grumpkins were daft, not to mention they had horrible eyesight." Lyanna leaned against the courtyard's stone column, legs and arms lazily crossed, Ben practicing his sword forms before her. "Slide your foot back. There, that's right."

The sun had departed behind Darry's towers and the compact courtyard were shrouded in shadow.

"I want a shadowcat," Ben mused in a childlike tone, sword falling to his side. "Rotten they only live north of the Wall."

Lyanna turned her head and peered at her younger brother. "We'll go someday, Ben. Then you can bring back twenty shadowscats."

"Father would never let me keep them."

"Father would never know," Lyanna whispered, rustling her fingers through Benjen's black curls. "We'd find somewhere to hide them all."

"Hide what?" A voice interrupted. Ser Arthur strode up, light glittering off his armor. Lyanna immediately took note of Dawn strapped on his back. A kingsguard was never without his sword.

"Nothing of your concern, Ser Arthur."

"As long as it doesn't involve scorpions and sun peppers. My brother and sister played a nasty trick on me when I was a boy. I've never gotten over it." Ben giggled and Lyanna spared him a smile. It sounded like something she and Brandon would do to Ned.

"Should I inquire as to where those scorpions were dispatched, good ser?"

"No, definitely not. That tale is not for children's tender ears."

"I'm not a child!" Ben said with as much maturity he could muster. The squeak of his voice discarded any ground he held. Unfolding her arms from her chest, Lyanna rested her hands on the stone pillar behind her.

"Lady Lyanna, Lady Darry requests your presence, she sent me to search for you."

"Don't you have princes to guard, Ser Arthur?" Lyanna asked. "Why does Lady Darry require your valiant kingsguard services, pray tell?"

Ser Arthur sighed. "Rhaegar is hiding somewhere, and Lady Darry caught me in the corridor, I didn't necessarily have a choice in the matter. This castle is so incredibly small, I seem to run into everyone but the cook in those damned halls." He ran a gloved hand through his dark locks, mussing the curls back behind his ears.

"Hiding? Why would His Grace be hiding?" Ben asked, and Lyanna was grateful she didn't have to, the question was burning on her tongue.

"Well, the Grumpkin King is rumored to roam the Riverlands." Ser Arthur said with a knowing smirk. "I wouldn't be surprised if he came here to snatch up the prince especially-after your sister, of course. He'd take her for his bride, but he'd probably roast Rhaegar over a burning pit."

Lyanna snorted, "The prince is a Targaryen. Everyone knows fire will only make dragons stronger." She pushed herself off the pillar, side-stepping Arthur. "A meeting with Lady Darry sounds enticing, ser, but I have other engagements."

"Like what?" Ben frowned. She began walking at a brisk pace across the courtyard, Ben trailing behind her. She thought about going to her chamber, taking a bath and washing all the grass and dirt from her body, but then realized she didn't really mind and she wasn't ready to be locked up just yet.

She needed a door, a stair, another hall. . . anything! Darry castle was so small, every path lead to the kitchens. Lyanna could slip out the back door and creep around the-

"Lyanna, wait! Where're you going? Brandon said we were going to dinner in an hour, he said-"

"Oh, what are you, Ben!? His messenger maid? Brandon isn't king of castle, you know. If you stopped listening to him maybe you'd have a bit more fun." Ser Arthur still stood where they'd left him, running another hand through his hair, shoulders resisting the weight of his position. Lyanna doubted she was making his job any easier.

She shouldered a door to her left and took the first few steps down the dark stairwell. Already she could smell the aroma of sweet dumplings and roasting boar. "But, Ly!" Ben simpered softly. "Where're you going? Can I come with you?"

"Go find Ned," she flourished her hand at him, her attention elsewhere. "Or someone. Just don't do anything I wouldn't."

"Which is what, exactly? You always do stupid things." His voice stretched along the stairwell in an echo. "Where're you going?"

"I'm praying. It's a rather personal exploit and I'd prefer to go it alone." Her sloppy braid swung against her chest as she took a few more steps down the stair. The door was coming to a close and was snatching away the light with it.

"Praying!?" Ben shouted. "What are you praying for?!"

"A steady stream of conscience," Lyanna grumbled to herself bitterly. "My betrothed to not be such a dog nipping at my heels," her fingers grazed the stone wall as she staggered down the stairs, trying to get a proper footing. "My fucking maidenhead to be intact when I die. . . ."

* * *

Color bloomed in the sky like a blush blooms on a maiden's cheek, and Lyanna admired the fading sun from the branches of a heart tree.

Dusk was beginning to spread over the godswood slowly and the warmth the of the summer sun had not yet evaporated from the air. Lyanna could see traces of pink laced into the contours of the clouds high above through the branches of her tree. A canopy of red leaves loomed overhead, rustling with the breeze.

There was dirt underneath her fingernails, Lyanna observed. A knuckle of her right hand was scraped and bruising a faint purple, while the thumb of her left hand was swelling from a nasty encounter with some armor. The cut on her cheek was crusted with dried blood and her grey tunic was stained and torn as were her trousers. Benjen's leather vest clung to her waist too tightly to be deemed comfortable, and her braid was unraveling strands of dark hair, leaving her to battle the locks sweeping into her eyes unceremoniously.

It was quiet. The sweet kind of quiet. When the birds fall silent and the wind fills up your ears with its whispering; when the ground is not bothered by the scuffling of boots, nor the air with the harsh sound of voices thrumming across its emptiness. It was simply the soft melody of Lyanna's breath and the flutter of her lashes against her cheeks as she closed her eyes, letting go of the rope that fastened her to the surrounding world. It was just her up in the heart tree, a weirwood that's face could possibly be mistaken for laughing.

And then the rope caught Lyanna around the waist and yanked her from the quiet place, from very high up in the tree. The rope was a voice, and how lovely that voice sounded. It said her name. The name was called with familiarity, as if the address slid from lips that had handled it before. There was no 'lady' preceding the name, which made Lyanna appreciative. She grew weary of the formalities.

Opening her eyes, Lyanna saw the branches of the weirwood and the red leaves swaying and nothing had changed. But then Lyanna looked down from her perch and her teeth found her bottom lip.

"What are you doing?" She asked, her confusion had turned to anger and her voice was harsh.

"I came to the godswood to seek guidance from the Old Gods, but if this heart tree is claimed, I will find myself another." Rhaegar stepped back.

"Why are you hiding?" Lyanna questioned, her voice carrying a tone of accusation.

Rhaegar's brow dipped in confusion."I don't understand."

Lyanna breathed out in frustration, sleep departing from her entirely. "Ser Arthur said you were hiding. Why? What could you possibly be hiding from?" He surely wasn't avoiding the Grumpkin King.

The prince stepped forward hesitantly, a thoughtful pout possessing his mouth. "There are many things and all the more reasons. All of them are naive and imprudent. I will spare you of them."

Lyanna settled her neck back against the trunk of the tree, her breath steadying. A few moments passed without disturbance, and the quiet fell once more. _If all the world were heart trees and sunsets, everything would be much simpler,_ she thought, fatigued. _And certainly no princes. . . ._

"Why do you fight?" Rhaegar asked abruptly. He had rested himself at the base of the weirwood, among the sprawling roots and fallen leaves, his shoulders relaxed. He held a red leaf between his long fingers, twirling the stem around in a flurry of color. "Surely there are more. . . simpler activities you could busy yourself with. Why bother with swords?"

She took a few breaths before supplying the prince with an answer.

"When I was a child I remember being frightened of the tales we were told. Winter tales. Snow bears, grumpkins, and white walkers," Rhaegar's head tilted up at her. Lyanna hung her head to the side and could peer down at him from her branch. "This ancient woman, Old Nan, has been at Winterfell since before I can remember. She told us all the stories. She loved to scare us, my brothers and I. She'd preach of winters and wildlings, wolves, and ice creatures." Wind tousled her hair against her cheeks as she spoke. "I would have terrible dreams after those tales. I'd wake up crying, scared out of my wits." Lyanna could recall the feel of the stone beneath her feet as she ran down the corridors. "I'd crawl into bed with Brandon or Ned, and they'd ask me what was wrong, and I'd be convinced I saw a wildling out my window, or a wight had come into my bed chamber to steal me away.

"They'd tell me I saw nothing. They'd say no creature could get beyond the Wall, that the sworn brothers of the Watch would guard us. I'd ask them what if the Wall crumbled, what if the Nights Watch failed? What would happen to us then?" Rhaegar listened silently, the leaf still clutched in his fingers. "They said that nothing could break the walls of Winterfell, that the guards would save us then. I asked what if they killed the guards and broke our stone walls. They told me if the walls fell and the guards had all been beaten, that they would protect me. That I'd be safe with them."

Lyanna found it hard to speak, her lips willed the words forth, but her throat was cinched closed. She grasped the rough bark of the the tree, her skin digging into the grooves of the wood, pain forcing her forward. She was thankful Rhaegar couldn't properly see her face.

"But then they left me." The words were fractured by the pain in her chest. "Brandon became a ward of Lord Dustin and left for Barrowton," Lyanna swallowed. "And Ned was sent to the Vale, a ward of Jon Arryn. They were gone for so long, I feared they had left me for good. But I still had Ben. He was very young then, only three years or so." Lyanna messed with the fringes of her grey tunic, her mind flushing with the memories. "Old Nan still spun her tales. I was impartial to them," she smiled. "She had already tainted me, but Ben was a tender babe. He grew frightened of the stories-he'd come to my chambers and cry about the white walkers. I'd tell him of the Wall and Watch, and how strong Winterfell was. But, still, he'd press on. What if the Wall crumbled and the Night's Watch failed? What if Winterfell was taken and all the guards killed?" Lyanna paused, and glanced at the silver haired head below her. Rhaegar was staring up at her, his expression pensive.

"I told him that if the Wall was destroyed, and if the Night's Watch failed-that if the stones of Winterfell could not hold the creatures of winter back, and the guards could not save us, that I would protect him."

Ben had looked at her with such trust in his grey eyes, eyes that were so alike hers, that Lyanna found she had to keep that trust. She fought with the guards, practiced with the weapons in the armory and wielded a sword as well as any man in the yard by the time she was ten and two. Callous fingers and scraped knees was the price she paid, as well as her father's disapproval. But there was nothing sweeter to Lyanna than the sound of steel.

Rhaegar was still resting at the base of the tree, his legs straightened before him, his hands folded in his lap as politely as one can look while sitting in a godswood with a maiden high up in a tree, telling you tales of her childhood.

Lyanna shifted her way through the branches and lowered herself down, making it so she was only a few feet above his head. Her legs swung reminiscently through the air, and her hair fell around her face. Rhaegar studied her. "That is why I fight, Your Grace."

The prince stood, the red leaf dancing between his fingers as he sifted his way among the roots. He weaved a path through the weirwood's fingers, the black boots on his feet contrasting with the bloody red leaves. Rhaegar paced like that for a few long moments, before meeting Lyanna's eye. His silver hair swept against his jaw as he watched her and Lyanna waited for him to speak.

"I, too, was fond of tales. Stories and songs of great warriors, battles, and creatures. I liked the dragons most of all. I used to wish I had one," he chuckled under his breath. "I'm not the first Targaryen to wish for a dragon, it would seem. I read all the histories, as well. Accounts of knights and their accomplishments, magic across the Summer Isles, the First Men," his eyes filtered to Lyanna. "Tales of the Night's Watch, and records of ranger's expeditions beyond the Wall.

"Deep down into the libraries of Kingslanding there're old books collected by the finest maesters over the span of three hundred years," Rhaegar resumed pacing slowly between the roots once more, rubbing his jaw, his face still with concentration. "One day, I found something peculiar. A scroll. The oldest scroll I'd ever seen. Written in numerous substances. Blood, ink, gold, and other odd mixtures. It foretold a tale of a prince," Rhaegar's lips twitched. "'The Prince that was Promised,' it spoke of. One man destined to defeat the long winter and vanquish the darkness. To destroy the wights and walkers alike. I assumed, naturally, that this was me," Rhaegar smiled and gestured to himself, but not out of fondness. "I believed I was the one the scroll spoke of, do you see?" His voice was melodious, ringing with a fevered passion, his words surging with vitality. "I thought it was destined-written in time. 'A song of ice and fire,' it said. . . ." His hand surged through his hair in a moment of overcoming vigor. He fisted the silver strands, his chest expelling the air from his lungs in suspended vexation. "But it was only a story, nothing more. I didn't realize that when I was a boy. It was so long ago, now. Everything's different." He stopped himself, the speech dying on his tongue. Rhaegar clamped his lips together and stared at the weirwood tree, almost helplessly, like a starved man being tempted with a feast not his for the taking.

Lyanna could see he was mislead. It was plain upon his face. Lost, confused, and battling the solitude that came with his position. Some said the Targaryens were mad, driven to insanity by the blood of the dragon they apparently descended from. But perhaps it wasn't the dragon's blood. Perhaps they just had insurmountable desires.

Rhaegar walked closer to the trunk of the enormous heart tree, and gazed at the oozing face carved into the bark. Red sap dripped down the wood and Lyanna watched him. The prince placed his hands against the tree and leaned forward, slumping his shoulders, revealing to Lyanna the weight he bore upon them. The weight of a kingdom, the burden of a father, the responsibility of a family, protection and happiness of a great many people. She longed to asked him if it was worth it. Lyanna felt ashamed to be a part of that burden. She must have weighed quiet a bit upon his back.

Rhaegar turned his head from its downcast position to look at her. "It is said the Children of the Forest carved these faces," Rhaegar mused aloud, running a pale ringed finger along the gauged face marks. "Some believe the Old Gods watch over their followers through the eyes of the heart-tree," Lyanna snorted.

"Maester Luwin was sagacious enough to know a bit about the old histories, Your Grace. I grew up among these trees, I know them." Lyanna titled her head to get a clearer view of the face. "There used to be thousands of heart trees," her voice was somber. "The Andals changed that, though, didn't they? Chopped 'em all down, all except the forests in the North. No doubt they pissed green, the cravens. Felt a bit of winter and scampered back to their summer suns."

Rhaegar stroked the tree's open mouth, sap clinging to his fingers. "This one's angry." The face did indeed look rather cross, its mouth manifesting into a silent snarl.

"The Children made the faces frightening to ward off Andals and First Men alike. They posed as a warning."

Rhaegar did something similar to a smile. "Are there no laughing heart threes?"

The reference to the assumed name she took at the tourney made Lyanna's stomach clench. She glared at the prince and the tree both. Flipping her mangled braid over her shoulder, Lyanna swung down from her perch in the tree and rolled to her feet. Brushing the debris from her trousers, Lyanna felt Rhaegar's eyes on her. Ignoring his gaze she strode up to the trunk of the tree. Scowling at her lack of provision, Lyanna looked at Rhaegar and then at his attire. Silk black tunic with a black leather vest, and black trousers-

_Ah, there we are._

Stepping lightly into between the gnarled roots, Lyanna came uncommonly close to the Targaryen prince. At the close proximity of their bodies, Rhaegar immediately stepped back. Lyanna jutted out her chin in annoyance. The dagger at his side was ornamented with jewels and the handle was fashioned from bone. Her fingers had just curled around the hilt when her wrist spasmed in pain. Rhaegar's hand was locked around her arm, a frown appearing across his brow.

"I'm not going to stab you, Your Grace, merely answering your question." He let go slowly. Lyanna thumbed the knife, dragging her finger along the blade. _It will suffice_, she suspected.

Turning to the angry weirwood, Lyanna drove the dagger into the pale bark. The screeching mouth, with Lyanna's steady hand, soon morphed into a lopsided grin. Impressed with her work, she stepped back. She cleaned the blade with the edge of her soiled tunic, red sap sticking to the blade, before handing it-hilt first-back to Rhaegar.

"Will the gods be pleased with your work?" He asked.

"Well, it's such pleasant work, they must be. It's better than my needlework at least."

"The Old Gods are more tolerant than I envisioned them to be. Little girls sneaking about their forests, mucking up their shrines."

"I am the blood of the First Men. They surely will appreciate craft of their own. And besides, the gods will never know."

"The gods always know, Lady Lyanna. They bare witness to all the doings of their people. Little girls are no exception."

Lyanna's mouth puckered tautly at his address and her lips twisted wicked. "Then let them bare witness," she pitched her chin slightly higher in the air. "I do not fear them."

Rhaegar raised a pale brow, his eyes calculating. "Some would think you're quite foolish, my lady, to speak such things."

Ben's vest was stitched up Lyanna's front, pressing uncomfortably into her injured side. Her fingers itched to relieve the wound of its bothers and drown it in hot wine, but that would have to wait. Despite the deep, pulsating ache throughout her muscles, Lyanna stood perfectly still. The tree remained laughing at her, and she wondered if the expression was mocking her.

"I am foolish, Your Grace." She admitted in a hushed voice. "Just a silly foolish girl," Lyanna turned to the heart tree-laughing tree. "But to let surreptitious beings have a ruling hand over my doings would be the utmost treason I could inflict upon myself. I may be foolish, but so are many others to believe they have no choice in the matter of their lives because a god may be displeased. I am foolish you say, Your Grace? So be it, but you are foolish as well to think I will prohibit myself from acting of my own accord and not succumbing to my own desires, whatever they may be, because a fat septon in robes tells me it's wrong." Rhaegar's face was calm in the way a sea was before a surging storm. His eyes were indulging in what he himself could not and that was the girl standing mere steps from him, her face turned just slightly from the tree to be assured of his presence, her profile striking in the evening light.

Lyanna waited or Rhaegar to reply, no doubt with some guarded and valid murmuring that would be an attempt to ease her resilience. She turned from the laughing heart tree, prepared to liberate her conscience of many things she wished to say when Rhaegar began to speak.

Lyanna's back straightened at the steel in his voice, her jaw tightening. "Is that what you truly believe, _my lady_? That I am foolish? You think because I am not forthright with my emotions and because I do not speak every fleeting word that dabbles across my conscience that I am unscathed by mortal desires? That I do not hurt, crave, and bleed like any other man?"

Lyanna twisted her neck to see his face and was surprised by his calm demeanor, even now with the words spoken with such ferocity and anguish. Her chest tightened at the burning of his eyes. Light filtered through the branches and licks of sunlight glowed against the prince's silver hair, abandoning half his body in shadow. Lyanna was beginning to see the many faces of Prince Rhaegar, fearing him, but intrigued by him as well. The power and venom seeping with every breath he exhaled made her fingers tingle at her sides.

Lyanna watched him with a steady gaze, wondering just when he would break. She had been tempering him like a fine piece of steel, bending him at her will, but Rhaegar was bound to shatter.

"A man of my situation," he chose his words carefully, "does not have the luxury of surrendering to his wants. I have a position to maintain, people to rule over, I cannot stop all that for a meaningless whim." He stood still and straight, fists clenched tightly.

"Meaningless, Your Grace?" Lyanna growled, feeding off his malcontent. "Is your satisfaction that unimportant to you?"

"The happiness of my people will always come before my own."

"A selfless sentiment, Your Grace. I'm sure it will please everyone to know," his gaze was penetrating. "But you lie."

Rhaegar's lips split from their tight facade. "What?"

"I know you for a liar, Your Grace." Lyanna uttered indignantly. "I am the evidence of your dishonesty, the reason for your shame." Her voice trembled with anger. "The day you bestowed the crown of winter roses to me is the mark of many unhappy people, not to mention a father-_a king_. You displeased the entire Riverlands that day, but that is where you lie a second time: you gave in to your longing, put yourself before your people." Rhaegar's expression seemed to soften at her words. Lyanna's eyes smoldered and her voice was cold. "You chose. Now you must live with that burden, that shame, and I with you. So please, Your Grace, save me your petty sermons of selflessness, I know you have sacrificed much, but do not lie to me about desire. You of all people should know how it feels to be caught in a trap. You faced Elia of Dorne and took her for your lady wife. You said the vows, as I one day will take with Robert, but please save me the discourtesy and tell me the truth."

Rhaegar stood so still she feared he had turned to stone. Anger no longer possessed his violet eyes, but the tightness in his shoulders remained. Lyanna saw a small muscle in his jaw twitch. His composer was slipping.

Rhaegar took a step forward in a rush of black leather. His hands brushed against her cheeks, ensnaring them in her hair and his mouth met her own. Lyanna's whole body arched away from him, "_Get off me-get off!_" She growled against his lips, writhing, her arms shoving him away. "_Get off_-_You fucking-lying bastard_," her palms dug into his chest, but Rhaegar wouldn't yield, he was fighting her. Lyanna's fingers trembled, suddenly roaming against skin where she should have been drawing blood. Her mouth pressed angrily against Rhaegar's, a growl building in her throat, suddenly craving the taste of him. Her body no longer resisted his touch, instead she ached for it. Rhaegar's arm wrapped around her waist, cradling her to him. Lyanna's fingertips wandered against his chest, stretching around his broad shoulders, pulling him closer. She fed off the urgency in which he kissed her, and the tenderness of his fingers as he trailed a hand down her side. Lyanna cried out against his mouth as the wound at her side pulsed in pain. Ignoring the searing flesh and roaring in her head, Lyanna dragged her fingers across Rhaegar's jaw, stroking her thumb across his cheek, feeling the skin and bone she was so desperate to touch.

The scent of potent sap filled her nose as they collided against the heart tree and Lyanna wondered if the gods bore witness to their passion, their clash of fire and ice. The prince and the she-wolf surrounded by leaves bathed in red as the sun finally set on the godswood.

"You are neither my regret nor my shame," Rhaegar croaked into Lyanna's ear, "Gods, Lyanna. What have you done to me?" He shook his head solemnly, strands of hair rustling with the evening breeze. "I do not regret-"

Lyanna's chest heaved, her breath quivering with dying rage. "Prove it," she whispered. "Before the Old Gods and the New, let them hear your words."

"It is not words I want, my lady," he murmured. "Let the gods have my words," Rhaegar's eyes glittered and his breath was hot against her neck. "They are wind."

* * *

**A/N: And there we have it, our SMOOOCHHHHH. Whhooo. **

**I am so incredibly sorry for the incredibly long wait, it took me an incredibly long time to write this incredibly juicy chapter. Okay sorry, I'll stop saying incredibly now. . . . Anyway, I just started junior year a few weeks ago and like many of you have already experienced: it is quite the fucking hell everyone says it is. Not fun. But I really am sorry and hopefully will get the next chapter up sooner rather than later, but this year is very straining and takes a lot of energy.  
**

**I really hope it's satisfactory, if the kiss sucks dragons balls, I apologize, seeing as I've never had one of my own, writing them can be a challenge. You can pretend it happened in a completely different way, more descriptive, better way if you'd like.**

**Leave something in the comments if you're feeling particularly kind, and I'll love you forever and ever! :) For those of you who have been reviewing, I seriously cannot thank you enough, it means a TON.  
**

**_PS: sorry for any terrible grammar, punctuation mistakes; it's 12 am and I've been doing homework all day, I am a bit slow from sleep deprivation, please excuse me._  
**

_Again, thanks to all of you for reviewing and a big thanks to Anita for her support, you're a big help! XD  
_


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Don't kill me. Yet. _More bullshit at the end..._

Chapter 10

"Lyanna, will you kindly get your lazy no-good arse to the stables?" Brandon urged for what had to be the third time in five minutes. "The horses need to be prepared."

"I heard you the first time, stupid," Lyanna snapped as she laced up her vest, eyes groggy with sleep. Her fingers were all broken, she came to conclude. She had been trying to knot the vest into place but her fingers kept on slipping and tying the wrong ends, gods help her. She just left the damned thing as was, too tired to give a damn.

The sun had yet to make its full fledged appearance, abandoning the Starks in a dreadful darkness as they prepared for their early departure back North. The halls of Darry was silent as everyone in their right mind took advantage of sleep, yet here Lyanna was, stubbing her toes against every damn stair and grumbling death threats to the birds that sang painfully irritating songs. How anything could be so cheerful at such an ungodly hour was beyond the Stark girl's apprehension.

Lyanna paused mid-stride, deciding to lean back on a corale post adjacent to her to watch the flurry of bodies across the yard hurrying to make preparations.

Petyr Baelish was nothing but a child, Lyanna regarded from her post. Brandon would be irate at her lack of perseverance: she'd yet to tend the horses, but the sight in front of her was too captivating to give up. Lyanna often yielded to temptation.

The guards of the Vale had responded to Hoster Tully's raven, it appeared. The boy would be escorted from the Riverlands back to that dismal rock his family resided on. Lyanna pitied the slight lad. He had barely anything ahead of him, a small keep on the Fingers was all that awaited him. There was pity, yes, but there was also respect. The child had loved Catelyn Tully enough to declare her hand in marriage, a stupid sentiment no doubt, but he proved to possess a heart, something many man lacked.

The sky blue tunics of Jon Arryn's men stood out against the muddy green that coated the land surrounding Darry. Baelish became enveloped by the men, shoulders rigid with tension and his face marked by discomfort. Lyanna took in a breath before kicking herself off the post she'd been leisurely resting against. The morning was still fresh and the yard remained silent, save for the occasional stable boy tending the horse's fodder.

"A moment with the boy, my lords," she said to the guards. "Young Baelish has a long journey ahead of him, I'd prefer he venture forth with some Stark words of parting." The guards exchanged looks before taking a considerable amount of steps back to allow her privacy with the twit.

She pressed her hands onto her hips, scrutinizing the boy who'd been held at Brandon's mercy, or rather Lady Catelyn's. He stood shorter than herself by at least a foot, with cool green eyes and a pointed chin, slender face and thin lips. The quick flittering of his gaze to survey herself did not escape Lyanna's notice. The tilt of his lips suggested disgust at her company while the twist of his brow gave notion to his curiosity at her presence.

"Lady Stark," he nodded, speaking with a dry arrogance. She was beginning to lose whatever respect she held for this green pisser. "What irrational whim has tempted you by my side at so early an hour?"

"I've been instructed to tend our mounts before my brothers and I leave for Winterfell, but you've proved to be a most formidable companion and how could I refuse a farewell to the boy who fought for my goodsister's hand?"

Petyr's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "They've not wed yet, I recall. She's still a Tully of Riverrun until your brother proves himself a man."

Lyanna smirked. "Oh, Brandon has proven himself a thousand times over, little lad, I assure you. But I've not come to discuss my brother's manhood with you," she took a small satisfaction in the boy's wince. "I've come to make you a promise."

"And what might that be, Lady Stark?"

"There are many and more things I will never understand, marriage included, but if I have any inkling of what devotion should be I can guarantee Lady Catelyn will receive it. You may not believe me, refuse to, even, but I know my brother and he is nothing but spirited. It's always been his way. Wolf-blooded, our father calls it. Brandon has enough of it, gods know. He'll always be wild and intense, determined and capable. What he lacks in wit he compensates for in emotion. Lady Catelyn will never be without his care, is what I'm promising. I swear he will do everything he can to make her happy. You might think him cruel and vicious, but my brother is not without honor, boy." Lyanna concluded, folding her arms to her chest. "He's a Stark," she added softly, as an afterthought.

Baelish was quiet for a moment, contemplating. His lips became taut and his cheeks, battered with wind, grew pale. "What good are your words to me? Let the winds take them, I need them not. I don't care for your brother, nor your ignorance, Lady Stark." A scowled crossed her features, hand drifting along the hilt of her sword. What a petulant little child his was, speaking to her like that. She longed to slap him with her blade, slice that sneer from his lips. "You think it matters whether or not your valiant _Brandon_," he sneered the name, "_cares_ for Cat? She will never love him, just as he will never love her as well as I."

"And what would you know of love, boy?" Lyanna retorted, her voice suddenly biting. "You say you have loved, but I see no reason for it. Lady Catelyn doesn't return your affections, I seem to remember. You'll know nothing of love because you've never been loved in turn, boy. I'll promise you that as well."

Confusion reflected in his eyes, yet he grinned.

"Lady Stark," he feigned a tone of endearment. Her fingers twitched at her side. "For someone not yet married, you speak a great deal about love. I was unaware you felt so strongly for your Baratheon lord…that is, I can only hope your betrothed is whom you profess fondness for…for it to be anyone else but Lord Robert would be…improper."

_Little shit._

Lyanna wore a mask of propriety, a lady's weapon Maester Luwin called it.

"Who else, child?" She chuckled, tipping her neck back as she did so, a taunting smirk materializing on her lips. "You've not met the heir to Storm's End and likely never will. You know nothing of my lord Baratheon."

"That's true, my lady. But I know of _other_ heirs. One in particular, it would seem. Tell me my lady, are you fond of dragons?"

She snorted. "In case you've forgotten, I'm a Northerner. I would hate to dance with dragons."

"Hmm," was all the boy submitted.

"Take my words with you on your march to solitude, boy, the Fingers may need them, perhaps more than they need you," Lyanna called over her shoulder with a careless flourish of her hand to disguise her true emotions. His words left her uneasy. He seemed to know more than he should, things he oughtn't to have noticed. The taste on her tongue felt sour and her shoulders felt heavier than usual. The boy assumed too much, he had no fact, making his presumptions useless. He would be escorted through the Vale soon enough, taking his trouble and sly smiles with him. Lyanna wasn't sadden by his departure in the slightest.

He was right, though, but he needn't know it.

Lyanna smiled to herself. Her lips quirked and she ducked her chin to her chest, feeling the burn of _his_ touch along her skin as if his arms still held her beneath the heart tree.

* * *

They'd been delayed an hour. Brandon, of course, would blame his sister, insisting if she'd gotten the horses settled that they'd be on schedule, but Lyanna maintained Benjen was at fault. The three younger Stark siblings trekked through the muddy fields to meet their elder brother at the crest of the hill ahead. Lyanna had procured the mounts eventually and their coursers waited for them, necks bent to the grass.

"If you hadn't felt the overwhelming urge to baby him, Ned, honestly…he's almost fully grown! He can manage a little blood!"

"_A little blood_, Lyanna? His nose was gushing all over everything…made such a mess…incredibly rude of you," he muttered, perturbed. "If you hadn't been mucking around the yard like children-" she interrupted to remind him they were as good as, "-_you just blabbered not a moment ago how mature you both were!_"

"Ben was being a baby, I only hit him a bit," Ned snorted. "_Honestly_, what is everyone always saying about Northmen? That we're supposed to be strong and tough? Yes, the sight of blood makes _such_ intimidating obstacles to us all," she mocked with a jaundice jut of her lips.

"Oh, let it go!" Ben groaned as he staggered behind his bickering siblings. "I'm sorry, alright! I wasn't even bleeding that much, Ned. It was a shock, that's all."

"Oh, right. I'm sure I'd be shocked as well if Lyanna-heedlessly-clobbered me in the face."

"SHUT IT."

Brandon's voice penetrated their heated conflict with ease, calling for utter attention. _Using his lord's voice_, Lyanna rolled her eyes. _Well, isn't he just the absolute oppressor._

"Lyanna, act your age, you're betrothed, show some decorum for once in your life. Ned don't be such a damn bore, Ben's face looked bloody hilarious- admit it or go back to moping about the unreasonable injustices of life. Ben…" he faltered. "Ben…stop bleeding, you're making a mess."

"I can't help it, Brand-"

"Use a cloth to cover it up, you sod."

She snorted into her fingers.

"Do I need to give you a slap, sister?"

"If it makes you feel entitled, brother."

Brandon attempted to look austere and dominating, but his grin dissolved the facade. "You're such a nuisance, what am I to do with you?"

She cocked her head, upturning her hands in contemplation. "Send me over the Wall to live out my days in freedom where I belong."

"You belong at Winterfell," her brother countered.

"Do I now? Is that why father's giving me up?" Ned and Ben avoided eye contact, familiar with this vein of conversation.

"Not now, Lyanna. Not today."

Lyanna swung her body lithely onto her chestnut mare, braid swinging over her shoulder. She leaned back in her seat, glaring down at her brother. The horse's lax muscles cinched with Lyanna's weight, suddenly alert and heated.

"Then when? When will we ever discuss it? Before I'm wed? As I take my vows in some bloody Sept and am sold off like a common whore, is that when we'll discuss it, Brandon?" She rolled her eyes and felt resentment conjure a lump in her throat. She hated how Brandon would stay at Winterfell, bring his lady wife to their home, get everything he wanted. He didn't have to leave his life behind as she would be forced to.

"Robert will be a good husband, Lya." His tone became softer. "He's Ned's best friend, they grew up together."

"That's right! They did! He grew up with Robert instead of us, _instead of me_!"

"Lya, don't start on that again."

"Oh, it's the truth. You as well. Where the seven hells were_ you_!? Off in Barrowton, weren't you?" Lyanna snapped. "Fucking, fighting. _Living_. Meanwhile, I rotted inside Winterfell with Maester Luwin and my damn lady's courtesies. _Alone_."

"Don't be so dramatic, Lya. You weren't alone," Brandon eyes had hardened. "You had Ben."

Ned and Ben had wandered over to their own mounts, steering clear of Lyanna's anger. It was practically ceremonious, now, for the two to clear off whenever Lyanna and Brandon laid into each other, claws and all.

"He was just a baby."

"And you his sister."

"No, don't you _dare_," he'd pierced a vein within Lyanna. She jutted her chin out, shackles raised. "I was never just a sister, you know that. My responsibilities may not be completely lacking, I raised him, Brandon, made him strong. Mother would have been proud, even if father couldn't see it. He never saw anything at all."

Brandon heaved atop his mount, teeth gritting harshly. "You need to let this go, Lya. You're not a child. Not anymore. Acting belligerent won't change anything, you know that. Robert will be…decent. He cares tremendously for you. I can't promise you anything, he's got a reputation, but he'll be a good match."

"Says the little lord," Lyanna exhaled in a cloud of contempt. The anger had nearly dissipated in her gut, flushed from her as Brandon spoke his words of wise wisdom. _He's a fool_. Only the bitter feeling of loss remained to Lyanna, gnawing at her mind, leaving it raw and bloody. "You speak of happiness, yet you're guaranteed to receive it. Your beautiful Tully maid, proper and complying, oh you're to enjoy her. You'll play come into my castle like a honorable Stark, won't you?" She gave a pitiful chuckle and shook her head sadly. "You know nothing of a lady's suffering. When your cock falls off and you are abandoned of all rights, repeat your words of acceptance for me, dear brother. Perhaps then you'll see why I fight, why I'm fleeing from…" she paused, her throat constricting. "All reason within me has grown cold. I'm not in control, not anymore. You don't know what that's like. You never will."

She kicked her mare into submission, lunging forward to ride the hills, breathing out harsh angry breaths, weeping to the cruel winds, whispering to the roaring gusts the pain she sustained, crying for the burn of certain defeat, smiling for the love she no doubt bore, where it swelled powerfully, bountifully in her chest, the infectious feeling swarming her body like a sickness. She would grow so sick with it, this lust, this agony, there would be no cure, not until she could relieve the ache that threatened to dominate her. He had departed back to his Southern suns and silks, his lady wife rumored to be with child. She prayed the rumors were false. It pained her to think of the baby he would hold in his arms, his child, part of him encapsulated within a lovely thriving thing. She could not give him that. And it hurt, oh gods, it hurt so badly. But she would have to endure, endure this savage pain, bare it like the winter. The Starks always endured, and she was a Stark, wedded or not, she grew and bloomed within Winterfell's walls. Brandon was right, she was no child. Gone was the girl she once knew, her flesh carved and reshaped afresh. She would bare and endure and keep the pain within, locked away with Rhaegar's smiles, his kisses and words. This sickness and flesh were one and the same, this love and devastating pain.

* * *

**A/N:** I have no excuse, to be perfectly honest. But to be fair, I started this chapter about four different times, intending a few different plotlines, but none of them fit my fancy, so I scrapped them and started fresh. Again. And again. Till this shitty little chapter conjured itself out of thin air. Too god damned short, eff it all. I've been debating whether or not to post it, since surely it'll be the cause of many tears and bitter grumblings, I shed enough tears and grumbled into my cat far too many times to deny you all of that, at the very least. Grumble and groan all you like, and I with you.

God. I started this four fucking times and this is all I come up with? Pathetic, I tell you. So sorry.

Winter break begins soon. That's just a simple statement, not a promise, but perhaps a hint. I might be up for writing the next chapter, we'll see how I feel, if I don't claw my face off first (cry cry Lady Stoneheart style). This is terrible. Good day to you, leave a complaint for me, I'm dying to read them. CAPS are most welcome, let that RAGE out.


End file.
